POEMS 

FRANCES   FULLER  VICTOR 


UC-NRLF 


E7S    SflD 


FRED  M.  I>EWm 
BOOKSELLER 
TKLKGHAPH  AVE. 


' 


POEMS 


BY 

FRANCES  FULLER  VICTOR 


AUTHOR'S    EDITION 
1900. 


•jgx 


1 


'But  when  the  question  arose  whether 

he  was  not  only  a  lyrist  but  a  poet,  we 

are  obliged  to  confess  that  be  is  plainly 

a  contemporary,  and  not  an  eternal  man. 

—EMERSON. 


36981 


INDEX. 


LINES  TO  A  VASE 7 

Music 7 

THE  POST-BOY'S  SONG 8 

SOUVENIR 10 

'TWAS  JUNE,  NOT  I           11 

LINES  WRITTEN  IN  AN  ALBUM 18 

A  PAGAN  REVERIE            19 

A  JUNE  SONG 23 

PASSING  BY  HELICON 26 

THE  OLD  MAN'S  FAVORITE 29 

To  M 31 

A  SUMMER  DAY 32 

THE  POPPIES  OF  WA-II-LAT-PU 34 

A  LYRIC  OF  LIFE           52 

LOVE .       .  53 

BEAUTIFUL  SOUL 54 

To  MY  VALENTINE            56 

ASPASIA 57 

ON  SAN  FRANCISCO  BAY 63 

AUTUMN  IN  THE  HILLS         .        .        .        .               •  64 

SUNSET  AT  THE  MOUTH  OF  THE  COLUMBIA           .        .  69 

PALO  SANTO            72 

THE  PASSING  OF  ALICE 73 

PALMA 76 

EDITH 78 

To  THE  BLUE  NEMOPHELA            79 


INDEX  —  CONTINUED. 

PAGE 

NEVADA 80 

CHILDHOOD 82 

To  MRS.—                    83 

BY  THE  SEA              ........  85 

A  GOLDEN  WEDDING 86 

WAITING 87 

THE  PASSING  OF  THE  YEAR 89 

HE  AND  SHE 99 

THE  PLAYER 100 

AUTUMNALIA 101 

POETRY 103 

A  REPRIMAND                 . 104 

VERSES  FOR  M —              105 

AH  ME  !           107 

OATHS  ARE  BUT  WORDS            108 

PARTED  LOVE  109 


LINES  TO  A  VASE. 

Thou  art  a  dainty  dream 

Of  Eastern  art, 
To  make  a  sorrow  seem 

Of  joy  a  part. 

Within  thy  graceful  curves 
What  hopes  were  urned! — 

The  ashes  of  lost  loves 
Once  passioned-burned. 

'Tis  thus  the  Poet's  heart 

Entombs  desire, 
And  seals  from  life  apart 

Promethean  fire. 

Behind  his  well-turned  phrase, 

His  studied  lines, 
Hidden  as  in  a  vase 

His  soul's  soul  pines. 


MUSIC. 

Music's  first  anthem  was  the  song  the  stars 

Chanted  together  when  God  said  "Amen" 
To  the  earth's  morning  loveliness.     It  jars 
All  sentience  to  its  depths  now,  even  as  then. 


THE  POST-BOY'S  SONG. 

The  night  is  wild,  and  the  road  is  long, 
•  •  The  scudding  clouds  fly  fast, 
The  swift  wind  sings  a  dreary  song 

And  the  trees  creak  in  the  blast; 
Ine  moon  is  down  in  the  tossing  sea, 

The  stars  shed  not  a  ray, 
The  lightning  flashes  frightfully, 

But  I  must  on  my  way. 

Like  a  shuttle  thrown  by  the  hand  of  fate 

Forward  and  back  I  go 
Bearing  a  thread  to  the  desolate 

To  darken  his  web  of  woe, 
A  brighter  thread  to  the  glad  of  heart, 

And  a  mingled  one  for  all, 
Yet  the  dark  and  light  I  cannot  part, 

Nor  alter  their  hues  at  all. 

Full  many  a  hundred  times  have  I 

Gone  o'er  it  in  the  dark, 
Till  my  faithful  steeds  can  well  descry 

Each  long  familiar  mark, 
Withal  should  peril  come  tonight 

God  have  us  in  his  care, 
For  all  alone,  and  without  light 

The  boldest  well  beware. 


Now,  on,  my  steeds;  the  lightning's  flash 

An  instant  gilds  our  way; 
But  steady!  by  that  fearful  crash 

The  heavens  seem  rent  away. 
Soho,  here  comes  the  blast  anew, 

And  a  pelting  flood  of  rain; 
Steady!  a  sea  seems  bursting  through 

A  rift  in  some  upper  main. 

'Tis  a  terrible  night,  a  dreary  hour, 

But  who  will  remember  to  pray 
That  the  care  of  the  storm-controlling  power 

Be  over  the  post-boy's  way? 
The  wayward  wanderer  from  his  home, 

The  sailor  upon  the  sea, 
Have  prayers  to  bless  them  where  they  roam- 

Who  thinketh  to  pray  for  me? 

The  storm  has  passed.     Up  swims  the  moon 

Like  a  stately  ship  at  sea; 
Now  on,  my  steeds!  this    brilliant  noon 

Of  a  night  so  black  shall  be 
A  scene  for  us.     Toss  high  your  heads, 

And  merrily  speed  away, 
We  shall  startle  the  sleepers  in  their  beds 

Before  the  dawn  of  day. 


Like  a  shutter  thrown  by  the  hand  of  fate 

Forward  and  back  I  go, 
Bearing  a  thread  to  the  desolate 

To  darken  his  web  of  woe, 
A  brighter  thread  to  the  glad  of  heart, 

And  a  mingled  one  for  all. 
But  the  dark  and  light  I  cannot  part, 

Nor  alter  their  hues  at  all. 

Wooster,   Ohio,   1849. 


SOUVENIR. 

You  ask  me,  "Do  you  think  of  me?" 

Dear,  thoughts  of  thee  are  like  this  river, 

Which  pours  itself  into  the  sea, 

Yet  empties  its  own  channel  never. 

All  other  thoughts  are  like  these  sail 
Drifting  the  river's  surface  over; 

They  veer  about  with  every  gale — 
The  river  keeps  its  course  forever. 

So  deep  and  still,  so  strong  and  true, 
The  current  of  my  soul  sets  thee-ward, 

Thy  river  I,  my  ocean  you, 

And  all  myself  am  running  seaward. 
10 


'TWAS  JUNE,  NOT  I. 

"Come  out  into  the  garden,  Maud," 

In  whispered  tones  young  Percy  said; 

He  but  repeated  what  he'd  read 
That  afternoon,  with  soft  applaud; 
A  snatch,  which  for  my  same  name's  sake, 

He'd  caught,  out  of  the  sweet,  soft  song, 
A  lover  for  his  love  did  make, 

In  half  despite  of  some  fond  wrong: 
And  more  he  quoted,  just  to  show 

How  still  the  rhymes  ran  in  his  head, 

With  visions  of  the  roses  red 
That  on  the  poet's  pen  did  grow. 

The  poet's  spell  was  in  our  blood; 

The  spell  of  June  was  in  the  air; 
We  felt,  more  than  we  understood, 

The  charm  of  being  young  and  fair. 
Where  everything  is  fair  and  young — 

As  on  June  eves  doth  fitly  seem: 
The  Earth  herself  lay  in  among 

The  misty,  azure  fields  of  space, 
A  bride,  whose  startled  blushes  glow 

Less  flame-like  through  the  shrouds  of  lace 
That  sweeter  all  her  beauties  show. 
11 


We  walked  and  talked  beneath  the  trees— 

Bird-haunted,  flowering  trees  of  June — 

The  roses  purpled  in  the  moon, 
We  breathed  their  fragrance  on  the  breeze. 
Young  Percy's  voice  is  turned  to  clear 

Deep  tones,  as  if  his  heart  were  deep; 
This  night  it  fluttered  on  my  ear 

As  young  birds  flutter  in  their  sleep. 
My  own  voice  faltered  when  I  said 

How  very  sweet  such  hours  must  be 

With  one  we  love.     At  that  word  he 
Shook  like  the  aspen  overhead. 

"Must  be!"  he  drew  me  from  the  shade, 
To  read  my  face  to  show  his  own: 

"Say  are,   Dear  Maud!" — my  tongue  was  stayed; 
My  pliant  limbs  seemed  turned  to  stone. 

He  held  my  hands  I  could  not  move, 

The  nerveless  palms  together  prest, 

And  clasped  them  tightly  to  his  breast, 
\Yhile  in  my  heart  the  question  strove. 

The  fire-flies  flashed  like  wandering  stars — 
I  thought  some  sprang  from  out  his  eyes — 

Surely  some  spirit  makes  or  mars 
At  will  our  earthly  destinies. 
"Speak,  Maud!"     At  length  I  turned  away; 

He  must  have  thought  it  woman's  fear; 
12 


For,  whispering  softly  in  my  ear 
Such  gentle  thanks  as  might  allay 

Love's  tender  shame,  left  on  my  brow, 
And  on  each  hand,  a  warm  light  kiss — 

I  feel  them  burn  there  even  now — 
But  all  my  fetters  fell  at  this. 

I  answered  like  an  injured  queen: 

Its  our  own  defense  when  we're  surprised- 

The  way  our  weakness  is  disguised; 
I  said  things  that  I  could  not  mean, 
Or  ought  not — since  it  was  a  lie 

That  love  had  not  been  in  my  mind; 
'Twas  in  the  air  I  breathed;  the  sky 

Shone  love,  and  murmured  it  the  wind. 
It  had  absorbed  my  soul  with  bliss; 

My  blood  ran  love  in  every  vein, 

And  to  have  been  beloved  again 
Were  heavenly — so  I  thought  till  this 

Unlooked-for  answer  to  the  prayer 
My  heart  was  making  with  its  might. 

Thus  challenged,  caught  in  sudden  snare, 
Like  two  clouds  meeting  on  a  height 
And,  pausing  first  in  short  strange  lull, 

Then  bursting  into  awful  storm, 

Opposing  feelings  multiform, 
Struggled  in  silence,  and  then,  full 

13 


Of  our  blind  woman-wrath,  broke  forth 

In  stinging  hail  of  sharp-edged  ice, 
As  freezing  as  the  polar  north. 

Yet  maddening.     O,  the  poor  mean  vice 
We  women  have  been  taught  to  call 

By  virtue's  name:  the  holy  scorn 

We  feel  for  lovers  left  love-lorn 
By  our  own  coldness,  or  by  the  wall 
Of  other  love  twixt  them  and  us ; 

The  tempest  past,  I  paused.     He  stood 
Silent, — and  yet  "Ungenerous!" 

Was  hurled  back,  plainer  than  ere  could 
His  lips  have  said  it,  by  his  eyes 

Fire-flashing,  and  his  pale,  set  face, 

Beautiful  and  unmarred  by  trace 
Of  aught  save  pain  and  pained  surprise. 
I  quailed  at  last  before  that  gaze, 

And  even  faintly  owned  my  wrong; 
I  said,  "I  spoke  in  such  amaze 

I  could  not  choose  words  that  belong 
To  such  occasions."     Here  he  smiled. 

To  cover  one  low,  quick-drawn  sigh: 

"June  even  disturb  us  differently," 
He  said,  at  length;  "and  I,  beguiled 

By  something  in  the  air  did  do 
My  lady  Maud  unmeant  offense; 

14 


And,  what  is  stranger  far,  she  too, 
Under  the  baleful  influence 
Of  this  fair  heaven" — he  raised  his  eyes, 

And  gestured  proudly  toward  the  stars — 

"Has  done  me  wrong.     Wrong,  lady,  mars 
God's  purpose,  written  on  these  skies, 
Painted  and  uttered  in  this  scene, 

Acknowledged  in  each  secret  heart. 
We  both  are  wrong,  you  say;  'twould  mean 

That  we,  too,  should  be  wide  apart — 
And  so  adieu!" — with  this  he  went. 

I  sat  down  whitening  in  the  moon, 

With  heat  as  of  a  desert  noon, 
Sending  its  fever  vehement 

Across  my  brow,  and  through  my  frame ; 
The  fever  of  a  wild  regret — 

A  vain  regret  without  a  name, 
In  \vhich  both  love  and  loathing  met. 
Was  this  the  same  enchanted  air 

I  breathed  one  little  hour  ago? 

Did  all  these  purple  roses  blow 
But  yestermorn,  so  sweet,  so  fair? 
Was  it  this  eve  that  some  one  said 

''Come  out  into  the  garden,  Maud?" 
And  while  the  sleepy  birds  o'erhead 

Chirped  out  to  know  who  walked  abroad, 

15 


Did  we  admire  the  plumey  flowers 
On   the  wide-branched   catalpa  trees. 
And  locusts,  scenting  all  the  breeze, 

And  call  the  balm-trees  our  bird-towers? 
Did  we  recall  the  "black  bat  Night," 

That  flew  before  young  Maud  walked  forth — 
And  say  this  Night's  wings  were  too  bright 

For  bats — being  feathered,  from  its  birth, 

Like  butterflies  with  powdered  gold — 
Still  talking  on,  from  gay  to  grave, 
And  trembling  lest  some  sudden  wave 

Of  the  soul's  deep,  grown  over-bold. 

Should  sweep  the  barriers  of  reserve. 
And  whelm  us  in  tumultuous  floods 

Of  unknown  power?     What  did  unnerve 
Our  frames,  as  if  we  walked  with  gods, 

Unless  ttiey,  meaning  to  destroy, 

Had  made  us  mad  with  a  false  heaven, 
Or  drunk  with  wine  and  honey  given 

Only  for  immortals  to  enjoy? 

Alas,  I  only  knew  that  late 

I'd  seemed  in  an  enchanted  sphere; 

That  now  I  felt  the  web  of  fate 

Close  round  me  witti  a  mortal  fear. 

If  only  once  the  gods  invite 

To  banquets  that  are  crowned  with  roses, 

16 


After  which  the  celestial  closes 
Are  barred  to  us;  if  in  despite 

Of  such  high  favor,  arrogant 
We  blindly  choose  to  bide  our  time, 

Rejecting  Heaven's,  and  ignorant 
What  we  have  spurned,  attempt  to  climb 
To  heavenly  places  at  our  will, 

Finding  no  path  thereto  but  one, 

Nemesis-guarded,  where  atone 
To  heaven,  all  such  as  hopeful  still, 
Press  toward  the  mount,  yet  find  it  strewn 

With  corpses,  perished  by  the  way, 
Of  those  who   Fate   did   importune 

Too  rashly,  or  her  will  gainsay; 
If  I  have  been  thrust  out  from  heaven 

This  night,  for  insolent  disdain 

Of  putting  a  young  god  in  pain, 
How  shall  I  hope  to  be  forgiven? 
Yet  let  me  not  be  judged  as  one 

Who  mocks  at  any  high  behest, 
My  fault  being  that  I  kept  the  throne 

Of  a  Jove  vacant  in  my  breast, 
And  when  Apollo  claimed  the  place 

I  was  too  loyal  to  my  Jove, 

Unmindful  the  how  the  masks  of  love 
Transfigure  all  things  to  our  face. 

17 


Ah,  well!  if  I  have  lost  to  fate 

The  greatest  boon  that  heaven  disposes, 
And  closed  upon  myself  the  gate 

To  fields  of  bliss,  'tis  on  these  roses, 
On  this  intoxicating  air, 

The  witching  influence  of  the  moon, 

The  poet's  rhymes  that  went  in  tune 
To  the  night's  voices  low  and  rare — 
To  all  that  goes  to  make  such  hours 

Like  hasheesh-dreams.     These  did  defy, 
With  contrary  fate-compelling  power 

The  intended  bliss; — 'twas  June,  not  I. 

Lancaster,  Ohic,   1860. 


LINES  WRITTEN  IN  AN  ALBUM. 

The  highest  use  of  happy  love  is  this, 
To  make  us  loving  to  the  loveless  ones; 

Willing,  indeed,  to  halve  our  meed  of  bliss; 
If  our  sweet  plenty  others'  want  atones; 

Of  love's  abundance  may  God  give  thee  store, 

To  spend  in  love's  sweet  charities,  Lenore. 
is 


A  PAGAN  REVERIE. 

Tell  me,  Mother  Nature!  tender  yet  stern  mother! 
In  what  nomenclature  (fittlier  than  another) 
Can  I  laud  and  praise  thee,  entreat  and  implore  thee; 
Ask  thee  what  thy  ways  be,  question  yet  adore  thee? 

Over  me  thy  heaven  bends  its  royal  arches; 
Through  its  vault  the  seven  planets  keep  their  marches; 
Rising,  shining,  setting,  with  no  change  or  turning; 
Never  once  forgetting — wasted  not  with  burning. 

On  and  on,  unceasing,  move  the  constellations, 
Lessening  nor  increasing  since  the  birth  of  nations; 
Sun  and  moon  unfailing  keep  their  times  and  seasons, — 
But  man,  unavailing,  pleads  to  thee  for  reasons 

Why    the    great    dumb    mountains,    why    the    ocean   hoary, 
Even  the  babling  fountains,  older  are  than  story, 
And  his  life's  duration's  but  a  few  short  marches 
Of  the  constellations   through   the  heavenly  arches! 

Even  the  oaks  of  Mamre,  and  the  palms  of  Kedar, 
(Praising  thee  with  psalmistrv),  and  the  stately  cedar, 
Through  the  cycling  ages,  stinted  not  are  growing, 
While  the  holiest  sages  have  not  time  for  knowing. 

19 


Mother  whom  we  cherish,  savage  while  so  tender, 
Do  the  lilies  perish  mourning  their  lost  splendor? 
Does  the  diamond  shimmer  brightlier  that  eternal 
Time  makes  nothing  dimmer  of  its  light  supernal? 

Do  the  treasures  hidden  in  earth's  rocky  bosom. 
Cry  to  men  unbidden  that  they  come  and  loose  them? 
Is  the  dewr  of  dawntide  sad  because  the  Summer 
Kissed  to  death  the  fawn-eyed  Spring,  the  earlier  comer? 

Would  the  golden  vapors  trooping  over  heaven, 

Quench  the  starry  tapers  of  the  sunless  even? 

When  the  arrowy  lightnings  smite  the  rocks  asunder, 

Do  they  shrink  with  frightenings  from  the  bellowing  thunder? 

Inconceivable  Nature!  these,  thy  inert  creatures, 
With  their  sphinx-like  stature,  are  of  man  the  teachers; 
Silent,  secret,  passive,  endless  as  the  ages — 
'Gainst  their  forces  massive  fruitlessly  he  rages. 

Winds  and  waves  misuse  him,  buffet  and  destroy  him; 
Thorns  and  pebbles  bruise  him,  heat  and  cold  annoy  him; 
Sting  of  insect  maddens,  snarl  of  beast  affrights  him; 
Shade  of  forest  saddens,  breath  of  flowers  delights  him. 

O  them  great,  mysterious  mother  of  all  mystery 
At  thy  lips  imperious  man  entreats  his  history — 
Whence  he  came — and  whither  is  his  spirit  fleeing: 
Ere  it  wandered  hither  had  it  other  being: 

20 


Will  its  subtle  essence,  passing  through  death's  portal, 
Put  on  nobler  presence  in  a  life  immortal? 
Or  is  man  but  matter,  that  a  touch  ungentle, 
Back  again  may  shatter  to  forms  elemental? 

Can  mere  atoms  question  how  they  feel  sensation  ? 
Or  dust  make  suggestion  of  its  own  creation? 
Yet  if  man  were  better  than  his  base  conditions, 
Could  things  baser  fetter  his  sublime  ambitions? 

What  unknown  conjunction  of  the  pure  etherial, 
With  the  form  and  function  of  the  gross  material, 
Gives  the  product  mortal?  whose  immortal  yearning 
Brings  him  to  the  portal  of  celestial  learning: 

To  the  portal  gleaming,  where  the  waiting  sphinxes, 
Humoring  his  dreaming,  give  him  what  he  thinks  is 
Key  to  the  arcana — plausible  equation 
Of  the  problems  many  in  his  incarnation. 

Pitiful  delusion! — in  no  nomenclature — 
Maugre  its  profusion — O  ambiguous  nature! 
Can  man  find  expression  of  his  own  relation 
To  the  great  procession  of  facts  in  creation? 

Fruitless  speculating!  none  may  lift  the  curtain 
From  the  antedating  ages  and  uncertain 
When  what  is,  was  not,  and  tides  of  pristine  being 
Beat  on  shores  forgot,  and  all,  as  now,  unseeing 

21 


Whence  impelled,  or  whither,  or  by  what  volition; 
Borne  now  here,  now  thither    in  blind  inanition. 
Out  of  this  abysmal,  nebulous  dim  distance. 
Haunted  by  a  dismal,  phantomic  existence. 

Issued  man? — a  creature  without  inspiration. 
Gross  of  form  and  feature,  dull  of  inclination? 
Or  was  his  primordial  self  a  something  higher? 
Fresh  from  test  and  ordeal  of  elemental  fire? 

Were  there  ages  golden  when  the  world  was  younger, 
When  the  giants  olden  knew  not  toil  nor  hunger? 
When  no  pain  nor  malice  marred  joy's  full  completeness, 
And  life's  honeyed  chalice  rapt  the  soul  with  sweetness? 

When  the  restless  river  of  time  loved  to  linger; 
Ere  flesh  felt  the  quiver  of  death's  dissolving  finger; 
When  man's  intuition  led  without  deflection. 
To  a  sure  fruition,  and  a  full  perfection? 

Individual  man  is  ever  new  created; 
And  his  being's  plan  is,  loosely  predicated 
On  the  circumstances  of  his  sole  condition. 
Colored  by  the  fancies  borrowed  from  tradition. 

His  creation  gives  him  clue  to  nothing  older; 
Naked,  life  receives  him — wondering  beholder 
Of  the  world  about  him — and  ere  aught  is  certain, 
Time  and  mystery  flout  him,  and  death  drops  the  curtain. 

22 


Man,  the  dreamer,  groping  after  what  he  should  be, 
Cheers  himself  with  hoping  to  be  what  he  would  be; 
When  he  hopes  no  longer,  with  self-adulation. 
Fancies  he  was  stronger  at  his  first  creation: 

E]se — in   him  inhering  powers   of  intellection — 
Death,  by  interfering  with  his  mind's  perfection, 
Itself  gives  security  to  restore  life's  treasure, 
Freed  from  all  impurity,  and  in  endless  measure. 

Thou,   O   Nature,  knowest,  yet  no  word  is   spoken. 
Time,  that  ever  flowest,  presses  on  unbroken , 
All  in  vain  the  sages  toil  with  proof  and  question— 
The  immemorial  ages  give  no  least  suggestion. 

Portland,  Or.,  1876. 


A  JUNE  SONG. 

O  song-birds  from  the  east, 
And  sea-birds  from  the  west, 
And  great  birds  of  the  shining  wing, 
That  in  the  northlands  nest, 
Come,  sing  to  my  red,  red  rose, 
And  my  lilies  saintly  white, 
To  my  golden  poppies  sing 
Your  throatful  of  delight; 
Lilt  on  the  swinging  boughs 

23 


Of  my  accacia  trees, 
And  pour  your  music  out  upon 
The  perfume-laden  breeze. 
Come,  songsters  of  the  wood, 
And  put  my  heart  in  tune 
To  the  flowers  and  the  sun 
Of  this  happy  land  of  June. 

Cry  out,  O  brave,  bright  birds 

That  soar,  and  swoop  and  swing 

Above  the  sapphire  sea 

In  a  wild  wassailing; 

Drop  down  and  flick  the  foam, 

As  the  arrow  flies  when  sped; 

Laugh  at  your  startled  prey; 

And  scream  to  your  mates  o'erhead; 

Be  drunken  with  the  joy 

Of  the  sparkling  air  and  brine, 

With  the  glory  of  the  day, 

Its  shadows  and  its  shine; 

With  the  color  and  the  warmth 

Of  this  June-land  by  the  sea, 

That  you  whirl  above  in  play, 

And  you  scream  unto  in  glee. 


24 


Cry,  O  pilots  of  the  air, 
Leading  to  the  lonely  meads 
By. the  quiet  lakes  and  cold, 
To  the   land  of  grass  and   reeds, 
Twixt  the  northern  mountains  set 
Like  a  picture  in  a  frame. 
In  among  the  headlands  bold; 
Where  the  weird  northlights  flame, 
Flashing  through  the  evening  sky; 
Where  the  days  are  still  and  long, 
And  the  hours  are  brief  that  roll — 
Filled  with  murmurs  of  the  song 
Sung  by  cataracts  and  pines 
To  the  fiercely  glowing  stars 
Swinging  round  the  northern  pole- 
Back  the  midnight's  ebon  bars. 

O,  winged  creatures  all. 
Of  the  land  or  of  the  sea, 
Of  the  west,  or  east,  or  south, 
Bird  or  butterfly  or  bee, 
Or  the  eagle  of  the  crags, 
Breathing  of  this   air  divine 
Blowing  from  its  maker's  mouth, 
Quickening  the  blood  like  wine, 
Sing  and  cry  unto  this  land, 
To  this  sunland  by  the  sea, 

25 


To  the  sea  that  bounds  this  shore 

In  a  summer  symphony — 

Topaz  wave  and  amber  sand — 

To  this  sapphire  sea  and  sky, 

To  the  mountains  towering  o'er 

Vales  where  shimmering"  harvests  lie 

To  this  joyous  land  and  free, 

To  my  flowers,  and  to  my  heart, 

Sing  a  jocund  jubilee — 

June  is  sweet,  and  life  is  short. 

San  Francisco,   Cal.,   1896. 


PASSING  BY  HELICON'. 

My  steps  are  turned  away, 

Yet  my  eyes  linger  still, 

On  their  beloved  hill, 
In  one  long,  last  survey: 
Gazing  through  tears  that  multiply  the  view. 

Their  passionate  adieu. 

O  joy-empurpled  height. 

Down  whose  enchanted  sides 
The  rosy  mist  now  glides. 

How  can  I  lose  thy  sight? 

How  can  my  eyes  turn  where  my  feet  must  go, 
Trailing  their  way  in  woe? 

26 


Gone  is  my  strength  of  heart; 
The  roses  that  I  brought 
From  thy  dear  bowers,  and  thought 

To  keep,  since  we  must  part — 
Thy  thornless  roses,  sweeter  until  now, 
Than  round  Hymettus'  brow. 

The  golden-vested  bees 

Find  sweetest  sweetness  in — 
Such  odors  dwelt  within 

The  moist  red  hearts  of  these — 
Alas,  no  longer  give  out  blissful  breath, 
But  odors  rank  with  death. 

Their  dewiness  is  dank, 

It  chills  my  pallid  arms, 

Once  blushing  'neath  their  charms, 
And  their  green  stems  hang  lank, 
Stricken  with  leprosy,  and  fair  no  more, 

But  withered  to  the  core. 

Vain  thought,  to  bear  along 
Into  this  torrid  track, 
Whence  no  one  turneth  back 

With  his  first  wanderer's  song 
Vet  on  his  lips,  thy  odors  and  thy  dews, 
To  deck  these  dwarfed  yews. 

27 


No  more  within  thy  vales, 

Beside  thy  plashing  wells. 

Where  sweet  Euterpe  dwells 
With  songs  of  nightingales, 
And  sounds  of  flutes  that  make  pale  Silence  glow, 

Shall  I  their  rapture  know. 

Farewell,  ye  stately  palms 

Clashing  your  cymbal  tones 

In  thro'  the  mystic  moans 
Of  pines  at  solemn  psalms; 
Ye  myrtles,  singing  Love's  inspired  song, 

We  part,  and  part  for  long. 

Farewell,  majestic  peaks 

Whereon  my  listering  soul 

Hath  trembled  to  the  roll 
Of  thunders  that  Jove  wreaks — 
And  calm  Minerva's  oracles  hath  heard 

All  more  than  now  unstirred. 

Adieu,  ye  beds  of  bloom; 
No  more  shall  zephyr  bring 
To  me,  upon  its  wing, 
Your  loveliest  perfume; 
No  more  upon  your  pure,  immortal  dyes. 
Shall  rest  my  happy  eyes. 

28 


I  pass  by;  at  thy  foot 
O  mount  of  my  delight, 
Ere  yet  from  out  thy  sight, 

I  drop  my  voiceless  lute: 
Relentless  Nemesis  my  doom  hath  sent — 
This  cruel  banishment. 


THE  OLD  MAN'S  FAVORITE. 

Do  you  ask  where  she  has  fled — 
Lucy  with  the  laughing  eyes? 

Should  I  tell  you  "she  is.  dead," 
You  would  mimic  tears  and  sighs, 
And  pretend  a  sad  surprise. 

Yesterday  when  you  were  here 
She  was  sitting  on  your  knee, 

Whispering  stories  in  your  ear 
With  an  air  of  mystery 
And  a  roguish  glance  at  me. 

Lucy's  heart  was  always  light, 
Light  and  free  as  plumed  bird; 

When  she  glanced  within  our  sight, 
Or  her  merry  voice  we  heard, 
Music  in  our  hearts  was  stirred. 

29 


Ask  you  still  where  Lucy  hides? 
I  will  tell  you  by-and-by; 

Look  you  where  the  river  glides 
In  whose  depths  the  shadows  lie 
Mingled,  of  the  earth  and  sky. 

Lucy  always  loved  that  spot; 

There  her  favorite  flowers  grew— 
Violet,   forget-me-not, 

Iris,  with  its  gold  and  blue, 

Bending  under  beads  of  dew. 

Oft  on  the  old  rustic  bridge 

Framed  of  supple  boughs  entwined, 

Hanging  from  each  margin's  ridge, 
Swinging  softly  in  the  wind, 
Lucy  carelessly  reclined. 

Once  she  told  me,  while  her  eyes 
Filled  with  tears  of  childish  bliss, 

That  she  could  see  Paradise 

From  her  rocking  resting-place, 
Mirrored  in  the  river's  face: 

That  she  saw  the  tall  trees  wave, 

Bright-winged  birds  among  the  bowers, 

And  a  river  that  did  lave 

Banks  o'ergrown  with  wondrous  flowers, 
And  a  sky  more  fair  than  ours. 

30 


Then  she  asked  with  such  a  smile 
As  a  seraph's  face  might  wear, 

If  she  watched  a  long,  long  while, 
She  should  see  her  mother  there, 
Walking  in  the  groves  so  fair? 

When,  to  answer  her,  I  said 

She  should  see  mamma  in  heaven. 

Lightly  to  the  bridge  she  sped 
As  if  wings  to  her  were  given, 
And — but  look,  you  see  'tis  riven. 

Ah,  you  start! — your  look  is  wild! — 
Calm  yourself,  old  man,  I  pray; 

Lucy  was  no  earthly  child, 

And   'tis   well   she's   gone   away 
To  her  Paradise  so  gay. 


TO  M 

Do  thy  chamber  windows  open  east, 

Beloved,  as  did  ours  of  old? 
And  do  you   stand  when   day  has   ceased. 

Withdrawn  through  evening's  porch  of  gold 
And  watch  the  fading  flush  above 

The  hills  on  which  the  wan  moon  leans, 
Remembering  the  girlish  love 

That  blest  this  hour  in  other  scenes? 

31 


A  SUMMER  DAY. 

Fade  not,  sweet  day! 

Another  hour  like  this — 

So  full  of  tranquil  bliss — 

May  never  come  my  way, 
I  walk  in  paths  so  shadowed  and  so  cold; 

But  stay  thou,  darling  hour, 

Nor  stint  thy  gracious  power 
To  smile  away  the  clouds  that  me  enfold; 

Oh,  stay!  when  thou  art  gone, 

I  shall  be  lost  and  lone. 

Lost,  lone,  and  sad; 

And  troubled  more  and  more, 

By  the  dark  ways,  and  sore, 

In  which  my  feet  are  led; — 
Alas  my  heart,  it  was  not  always  so; 

Therefore,  O  happy  day, 

Haste  not  to  fade  away, 
Nor  let  pale  night  chill  all  thy  tender  glow 

Thy  rosy  mists,  that  steep 

The  violet  hills  to  sleep — 

Thy  airs  of  gold, 
That  over  all  the  plain, 
And  fields  of  ripened  grain, 
A  shimmering  glory  hold, — 

32 


The  soft  fatigue-dress  of  the  drowsy  sun, 

Dreaming,  as  one  who  goes 

To  peace,  and  sweet  repose, 
After  a  battle  hardly  fought,  and  won; 

Even  so,  my  heart,  today, 

Dream  all  thy  fears  away. 

O  happy  tears, 

That  everywhere  I  gaze, 

Jewel  the  golden  maze, 

Flow  on,  till  earth  appears 
Worthy  the  soft  perfection  of  this  scene: 

Beat,  heart,  more  soft  and  low, 

Creep,   hurrying  blood,   more   slow, 
Waste  not  one  throb,  to  lose  me  the  serene, 

Deep,  satisfying  bliss 

Of  such  an  hour  as  this 

How  like  our  dream, 

Of  that  delightful  rest 

God  keepest  for  the  blest, 

This  lovely  peace  doth  seem: 
Perchance,  my  heart,  He  sent  this  gracious  day, 

That  when  the  dark  and  cold, 

Thy  doubtful  steps  enfold, 
Thou  may'st  remember,  and  press  on  thy  way, 

Nor  faint  midway  the  gloom 

That  lies  this  side  the  tomb. 

33 


All,  all  in  vain 

Sweet  day,  do  I  entreat 

To  stay  thy  winged  feet; 

The  gloom,  the  cold,  the  pain, 
Gather  me  back  as  thon  dost  pale  and  fade; 

Yet  in  my  heart  1  make 

A  chamber  for  thy  sake, 
And  keep  thy  picture  in  warm  color  laid: 

Thy  memory,  happy  day, 

Thou  can'st  not  take  away. 

St.   Helens,   Or.,    1868. 


THE   POPPIES   OF  WA-II-LAT-PU. 

Between  the  zones  of  ice  and  sun, 

Between  the  east  seas  and  the  west, 
Where  boundless  prairies  stretch,  where  run 

Great  rivers,  born  about  the  crest 
Of  heaven-piercing  mountains,  hoar 

With  centuries  of  unguessed  time, 
Within  whose  murky  gorges  roar 

Vast  cataracts,  whose  awful  chime 
Shakes  the  tall  spires  of  rock  o'erhead, 

Where  pines  hang  shivering  with  dread: 


Note. — The  first  white  women  to  cross  the  continent  and  settle  in  Or 
egon  territory  were  Mrs.  Narcissa  Prentiss  Whitman  and  Mrs.  Eliza 
Hart  Spalding,  who  with  their  husbands,  Dr.  Marcus  Whitman  and  Rev. 
H.  H.  Spalding,  founded  the  missions  of  Waiilatpu  and  Lapwai,  in 
1S36.  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Whitman,  with  eleven  others,  fell  victims  to  the 
fury  of  the  Cayuse  Indians  of  the  Umatilla  valley  in  November,  1847. 
The  Protestant  missions  east  of  the  Cascade  mountains  were  broken  up 
by  this  tragedy,  and  never  resumed.  Various  theories  of  the  cause  of 
the  massacre  are  entertained,  but  my  subject  deals  only  with  poetical 
inc'dents,  and  is  designed  as  a  slight  tribute  to  tthe  memory  of  a  he 
roic  woman,  whose  name  must  go  down  in  history  as  the  pioneer  of 
women  pioneers  in  the  territory  north  of  the  Columbia  river. 

34 


Where  tropic  trees  flaunt  gaudy  vines, 

Where  northern  firs  stand  dark  and  stern; 
By  desert  springs,  in  night-black  mines, 

Where   sun-scorched   sand-plains   blind  and  burn; 
From  the  Atlantic's  rocky  rim 

To  the  Pacific's  steel-bound  shore, 
We  trace  the  trails,  time  cannot  dim, 

The   men   of  destiny   have   trod   before, 
Leading  an  empire  on  a  line 

Stretching  from  flashing  brine  to  brine. 

There  is  no  place  they  have  not  been, 

The  men  of  deeds  and  destiny; 
No  spot  so  wild  they  have  not  seen, 

And  measured  it  with  dauntless  eye. 
They  in  a  common  danger  shared, 

Nor  shrunk  from  toil,  nor  want  nor  pain, 
But  sternly  every  peril  dared, 

Just  to  be  heroes,  scorning  gain. 
We,  trembling,  listen  to  the  tale 

That  turns  the  hardiest  hearer  pale. 

Constrained  to  question  why,  and  when, 

And  how  at  first  the  impulse  came 
Which  parted  these  from  other  men, 

Leaving  us  often  scarce  a  name 
For  history's  page.     Yet  these  are  they 

By  whom  the  race  unseen  is  led; 

35 


Who  blaze  through  untrod  wilds  the  way 

Successive  generations  tread, 
Asking  no  more  than  this,  to  be 

Lords  of  themselves,  in  all  things  free. 

Here  is  a  rose.     It  grew  above 

A  grave  in  that  fair  tropic  isle 
The  poets  name  the  home  of  love — 

Paul  et  Virginie.     One  can  smile, 
Remembering  that  idyl  sweet 

Of  youthful  passion,  tender,  pure, 
For  though  it  ends  in  death,  'tis  meet 

Such  gentle  souls  should  not  endure; 
Their  fragile  natures,  soft  and  warm, 

Are  bruised  to  death  in  life's  first  storm. 

Here  is  a  relic  some  one  brought 

From  the  far  South  Pacific  seas; 
A  souvenir  of  a  battle  fought 

For  freedom  by  the  Tahitese. 
The  story  stirs  indignant  blood, 

For  wrongs  inflicted  on  a  race; 
Yet  here,  a  lack  of  brotherhood, 

A  feeling  of  the  lowlier  place 
In  nature's  plan  for  such  as  these, 

Dulls  our  indignant  sympathies. 

36 


"They  are  not  fitted  to  survive," 

We  say.     "Why  pain  ourselves  to  feel 
The  battle-throes  in  which  they  strive? 

Fate  has  decreed.     Mistaken  zeal 
Would  meddle  where  it  cannot  mend, 

And  lengthen  woes  it  cannot  cure; 
A  champion  may  be  not  a  friend; 

Enough  for  us  that  we  endure 
The  heat  and  burden  of  the  day, 

In  our  own  lives,  in  our  own  way." 

There  is  a  pang  that   strikes  us  through — 

When  strong  great  natures  bend  and  break— 
Or  when  the  earnest  and  the  true 

Are  martyrs   for  their   conscience   sake. 
That  gives  a  sense  of  wasteful  loss. 

From  which  we  feel  a  sharp  recoil, 
A  protest  against  crownless  cross, 

'Gainst  hopes  misplaced  and  fruitless  toil; 
A  verdict,  by  our  hearts,  that  we 

Censure  the  ways  of  destiny. 

Our  protest  gives  the  lonely  trail, 

Or  spring  that  bears  some  wanderer's  name, 
The  spell  of  an  Arabian  tale, 

Linking  it  to  heroic  fame. 
For  dauntless  daring  led  the  way, 

37 


And  hope's  strong  magnet  drew  them  on; 
What  hopes  they  were  no  man  can  say, 

But  we  enjoy  what  they  have  won. 
We  pass  in  safety  where  they  found 

Only  the  dark  and  bloody  ground. 

Between  the  Rockies'  peaks  of  snow 

And  blue   Columbia  rolling  free, 
From  Washington  to  Mexico, 

From  the  Sierras  to  the  sea, 
Our  footsteps  press  historic  ground, 

Albeit  often  all  unknown. 
Storms   level    soon    the    simple    mound, 

Time  crumbles  e'en  the  lettered  stone; 
The  wilderness  the  secret  keeps 

Of  him  who  in  its  bosom  sleeps. 

Not  always.     If  perchance  a  seed 

The  wanderer  brought  from  home,  should  share 
The  earth  with  him,  and  being  freed, 

And  fertilized,  spring  up  more  fair 
Than  its  fair  ancestors  at  home, 

And  spread,  and  cover  all  that  spot 
With  the  sad  story,  writ  in  bloom, 

So  that  it  could  not  be  forgot — 
Twould  match. this  tale  I'm  telling  you— 

The  Poppies  of  Wa-ii-lat-pu ! 

38 


Long  years  ago  I  chanced  to  meet 

Upon  Nebraska's  borderland, 
A  gentle  woman,  pale  and  sweet, 

Who  held  within  a  slender  hand 
Some  crimson  poppies.     Such,  I  thought, 

Would  well  become  her  bronze-brown  hair, 
In  which  a  glint  of  sunshine  caught 

Brightened  the  silver  lurking  there; 
A  low-voiced  woman,  fair  to  see, 

Gifted  with  grace  and  courtesy. 

We  talked  of  flowers.     I  careless  said 

That  poppies  were  no  loves  of  mine; 
I  liked  them  for  their  brilliant  red, 

Like  sunlight  through  a  vase  of  wine, 
But  was   content  that  they   should  lie 

Relieved  against  her  soft  dark  dress; 
They  pleased  right  well  my  artist  eye, 

But  failed  to  touch  me  ne'ertheless. 
She  smiled:  "They  sweetness  lack,  'tis  true, 

But  they  appeal  to  me,  from  you. 

As  homely,  tried,  and  constant  friends, 
Or  kindred  we  have  always  known; 

It  is  their  homeliness  that  lends 
A  grace  we  else  might  fail  to  own. 

They  grew  beside  my  mother's  door, 

39 


And  bloomed  despite  my  careless  feet; 
They  spread  the  grassy  orchard  o'er, 

And  blossomed  gaily  'mong  the  wheat — 
We  never  for  their  brightness  paid — 

I  love  these  careless  things,"  she  said. 

At  this  I  quoted  Robbie  Burns 

To  prove  her  careless  favorites  frail; 
And  thus  we  bandied  words  by  turns, 

Barren  of  import  to  this  tale, 
Till  memories  that  were  long-time  dead 

Revived*  at  touch  of  loving  hands. 
'The  sisters  of  these  flowers,"  she  said, 

"Are  blooming  in  far-distant  lands — 
fn  earth  the  sun  last  looks  upon, 

Where  rolls  the  rock-vexed  Oregon." 

"Ah!"  then  I  asked  to  know  the  rest— 

What  fate  had  plumed  her  poppy  seeds, 
To  bear  them  to  that  wondrous  West, 

Where  hardly  winged  fancy  leads — 
So  long  the  distance,  strange  the  road. 

"Their  wings  were  tender  woman  hands, 
And  gentle  feet,  that  heavenward  trode 

In  toiling  to  those  savage  lands." 
"And  she  who  owned  them?''    "With  her  blood 

She   sealed   her    Christian    womanhood." 

40 


"Her  blood!"     I  thrilled  with  sudden  pain, 

As  one  myself  in  dread  of  death, 
While  she  resumed  the  tale  again, 

With  saddened  mein  and  bated  breath. 
Yet  there  was  much  that  caught  my  ear, 

Like  martial  airs  blown  over  sea, 
And  stirred  my  soul  in  spite  of  fear 

With  waves  of  joyful  poesy; — 
The  theme  was  grand,  the  story  laid 

In  colors  Homer  might  have  spread. 

'Tis  told  in  history  now;  but  hear 

The  tale  her  poppies  brought  to  mind: 
"  'Twas  in  the  springtime  of  the  year, 

And   twenty   years   ago,    I    find 
On  looking  back.     My  boy  was  then 

A  babe — a  lovely  babe  in  truth — 
This  year  he  takes  his  place  with  men — 

Thus  time  glides  by  and  steals  our  youth. 
Yes,  twenty  years  ago  today, 

I  gave  those  poppy  seeds  away. 

"Our  post  was  on  the  Papillion, 

That  feeds  the  Platte — a  half  day's  ride 

Beyond  the  Council  Bluffs,  among 

Smooth  h;J1s  that  closed  on  every  side 

The  view  of  other  hills  and  vales, 


Each  one  as  all  its  fellows  green, 
Alternating  with  dimpling  dales, 

And  meadows  silvered  with  the  sheen 
Of  rippling  grass,  that  like  the  sea 

In  billowy  swells  moved  bright  and  free. 

"From  out  this  emerald  waste  there  came 

One  soft  spring  eve,  two  women  dear, 
Who  ran  to  me,  and  called  my  name, 

And  kissed  my  cheek,  with  many  a  tear, 
As  we  had  sisters  been,  whose  ways 

Long  parted,   here  together  drew; 
I  gave  the  loving  Father  praise 

Who  brought  them  every  danger  through, 
And  granted  me  to  see  a  face 

Once  more  of  my  own  sex  and  race." 

"One  moment:  tell  me  why  \vere  you 

Apart  from  others  of  your  kind." 
"The  church  appointed  us  to  view 

The  wilderness,  and  somewhere  find 
A  spot  to  found  a  mission.     Here 

We  fixed  our  post;  and  here  we  taught 
The  blessed  \vord  from  year  to  year." 

"And  found  your  teaching  come  to  naught 
"Ah,  who  shall  say?    We  kept  the  faith; 

Fought  the  good  fight,  for  life  or  death." 

42 


"And  those  who  came  your  heart  to  cheer?'' 

"Were  young  wives,  with  their  husbands  bound 
To  Oregon,  on  a  frontier 

Beyond  our  West,  and  only  found 
By  months  of  toilsome  travel,  spent 

In  cold  and  heat,  in  rain  and  sun, 
By  day  on  horse,  by  night  in  tent, 

A  journey  each  day  new  begun — 
For  they  must  keep  fast  by  the  train 

Escorting  them  across  the  plain." 

"The  train?"     "Ah,  yes.     St.  Louis,  then, 

Was  but  a  post  on  the  frontier; 
Recruiting  camp  for  mountain  men; 

French  in  its  aspect,  quaint  and  queer, 
Of  long,  low  houses,  white  and  neat, 

With  corridors  on  every  side; 
The   people   sitting  in   the   street, 

Beneath  the  shadows  cool  and  wide, 
While  hunters,  in  half  Indian  dress, 

Made  picturesque  the  quietness: 

"A  traders'   depot   and  exchange, 

Where  fleets  of  bateaux,  from  Orleans, 

Brought  hunting  outfits,  and  the  strange, 
Barbaric  gauds  in  which  the  queens 

Of  mountain  wigwams  took  delight: 

43 


Fine  scarlet  blankets,  bells,  and  beads, 
Gay  ribbons,  jingling  anklets,  bright, 

Soft  silken  kerchiefs  for  their  heads. 
With  arms  designed  for  their  lords'  use. 

And  white  men's  unrestrained  abuse. 

"These  bateaux,  with  their  pulsing  oars, 

That  'gainst  a  mighty  current  beat; 
That  glided  betwixt  murmurous  shores, 

And  moved  with  plashings  low  and  sweet, 
Were  then  the  river  craft  that  plied 

Between   St.   Louis   and   Bellevue, 
Bringing  each  year,  their  freight  beside, 

Such  travelers  as  the  mountains  drew— 
Artists,  and  students,  those  who  find 

In  wildest  wastes  food  for  the  mind. 

"To  meet  them  came  long  laden  trains, 

Mules,  Indian  ponies,  packed  with  spoil 
Of  dammed-up  streams,  and  marshy  plains 

Made  populous  by  the  beavers'  toil; 
With  skins  of  otter,  and  the  hides 

Of  the  great  hump-backed  buffalo; 
White  traders,  and  their  dusky  brides, 

Decked  out  with  gay  barbaric  show. 
And  half-caste  babes,  whose  bold  black  eyes 

Ne'er  shrank  in  terror  or  surprise." 

44 


"And  so,"  I  said,  "they  joined  a  train 

Of  Indian  traders  and  their  wives ? 
I  own  it  draws  me  like  a  chain, 

The  romance  of  these  barbarous  lives. 
I  think  I  should  have  done  as  they, 

And  gone  out  to  the  mighty  West. 
But  with  the  motive?     Who  shall  say? 

We  each  pursue  our  special  quest: 
Perchance  I  am  not  of  the  stuff 

Men  take  for  stormsails."      '  'Tis  enough 

That  they  were,"  sighed  she.    "Yes,  like  you, 

They  counted  life  naught,  duty  all; 
But  zeal  may  be  mistaken,  too. 

Did  they  not  follow  at  the  call 
Of  wife-love,  more  than  God-love  strong 

In  most  of  us?"     She  spake:  "No  tongue 
Could  have  convinced  them  they  were  wrong, 

Though  it  with  prophecies  had  rung 
Eloquent  as  Isaiah's  page: 

No;  for  they  felt  a  holy  rage, 

"Such  as  the  prophets  might  have  known, 
To  conquer  by  their  Christian  faith, 

And  by  the  sword  of  Christ  alone 
To  win  their  way,  for  life  or  death. 

The  voice  that  called  on  them  to  go 

45 

\ 


And  teach  the  word  to  all  the  earth, 
\Vas  not  to  them  a  sound  of  woe, 

But  rather  one  of  holy  mirth: 
'Rejoice,'  it  said,  'for  victories  won 

In  name  of  my  beloved  son.'  ' 

"  'God  moves  in  a  mysterious  way,' ' 

I  murmured,  with  a  hidden  thought: 
"To  hear  his  voice  was  to  obey; 

But  they  mistook  the  message  brought." 
Then:  "Tell  me  who  those  women  were, 

Their  names,  their  looks,  their  natures  tell 
For  they  were  goddesses,  and  bear 

Homeric  armor  passing  well. 
First  of  their  race  and  sex  to  stand 

Alone  unharmed  in  that  far  land." 

She  told  me  all.     How  both  were  good, 

Sweet  Christian  women,  full  of  love, 
An  honor  to  pure  womanhood; 

But  one  had  graciousness  above 
Her  serious  sister,  and  her  name, 

A  fittingly  descriptive  one — 
Narcissa — from  a  flower  came, 

As  she  suggested  flower  and  sun; 
A  stately  blonde,  with  golden  hair. 

And  blue  eyes  'neath  a  forehead  fair. 

46 


The  other  was  of  graver  type, 

Dark- haired,  and  slight,  of  quiet  mien; 
Her  spirit  showing  strong,  and  ripe 

For  action  on  whatever  scene 
Her  duty  placed  her;  asking  not, 

And  caring  nothing  for  applause; 
Herself,  and  self-love,  all  forgot 

In  service  of  the  Master's  cause, 
With  such  devotion  and  restraint 

As  in  past  ages  made  the  saint. 

"They  could  not  tarry.     But  a  day 

We  had  them  with  us.    While  they  staid, 
We  talked  each  fleeting  hour  away, 

Nor  any  pause  in  labor  made, 
But  worked  the  while  we  talked.     I  strove 

To  add  such  comforts  to  their  store, 
Too  small  at  most,  as  anxious  love 

Suggested,  pained  to  do  no  more: 
And,  added  to  more  real  needs, 

My  little  gift  of  poppy  seeds." 

"You  knew  they  bloomed?"  I  asked.     "In  time 
A  message  came.     She  praised  their  hue 

And  said  they  loved  that  soil  and  clime, 
And  with   a  rich  luxuriance  grew 

Unknown  to  us.     They  made  her  walk 

47 


About  her  humble  garden  sweet 
With  homeward  thoughts  and  homeward  talk; 

They  drew  the  little  restless  feet 
Of  her  girl-babe,  who  crowed  and  played, 

Delighted  with  the  show  they  made." 

"And  then?    What  then?"     "They  passed  to  where 

Columbia's  waters  foam  and  flow, 
And  parted  company.     I  spare 

The  sickening  tale.     Enough  to  know 
They  with  their  husbands  went  among 

The  restless  wild  men  of  the  plains, 
And  taught  that  love  returned  for  wrong 

Will  bring  reward  in  priceless  gains; 
Taught,  with  alternate  hopes  and  fears, 

Their  Christian  faith  for  ten  long  years. 

"Then  came  the  end.     The  wild  men  tired 

Of  straining  after  thoughts  too  high 
For  their  low  level,  and  conspired 

To  blot  all  out,  and  all  deny. 
Narcissa  Whitman  fell.     She  whom 

I  told  you  of,  whose  poppies  grew. 
And  pleased  her  baby  with  their  bloom, 

Fell  drenched  in  blood — her  husband,  too. 
Wolves  tore  her  dainty  flesh,  and  bare 

Her  bones  lay,  in  her  long  fair  hair." 

48 


Years  passed.     Fate  placed  my  feet  upon 

The  self-same  way  those  women  trode; 
On  me  the  prairie  sunshine  shone, 

With  eager  steps  I  pressed  the  road 
Which  they,  first  of  my  sex  and  race 

To  pass  the  Rockies'  stony  wall, 
Had  honored,  passing  to  their. place 

Among  the  immortals.     I  recall 
The  wonder  that  I  felt  to  find 

The  deepened  ruts  with  roses  lined. 

Alas,  not  marked  by  these  alone, 

The  weary  way  from  shore  to  shore; 
But  a  white  line  of  bleaching  bone 

Of  worn-out  oxen  stretched  before, 
With  lonely  wayside  graves.     'Twas  thus 

That  first  I  learned  the  fearful  price 
The  nation  gave  to  dower  us 

W7ith  this  fair  land;  the  sacrifice 
Of  hecatombs  of  beasts  and  men, 

By  weariness,  want,  and  foes  in  ambush  slain. 

This  by  the  way.     I  stood,  in  time, 

By  Walla  WTalla's  gentle  stream, 
In  Wa-ii-lat-pu's  vale,  where  crime 

Struck  down  a  good  man,  and  his  dream. 
But,  ah,  no  sign  of  that  career 

49 


Begun  so  bravely;  not  a  trace 
Of  her,  the  woman  pioneer 

Of  all  the  great  Northwest;  no  place 
Bore  mark,  or  sign,  except  a  mound — 

A  nameless  heap  of  this  so  hallowed  ground; 

And  not  far  off  some  gnarled  trees. 

That  might  have  borne   imperfect  fruit:— 
I  turned  my  reverent  steps  to  these, 

As  honoring  every  branch,  and  root, 
On  which  I  gazed  with  misty  eyes; 

Then  down  the  little  valley  glanced, 
And   lo,   oh   exquisite   surprise! 

Her  blood-red  poppies  waved  and  danced 
O'er  all  the  meadow,  bright  and  gay, 

As  when  they  pleased  her  babe  at  play. 

"These  are  your  monument,"   I   cried, 

"O   noble  woman,   foully   slain! 
Blooming  with   every  summmer-tide, 

And  needing  only  sun  and  rain. 
Here  in  this  wilderness  they  spread 

Your  story  new,  from  year  to  year, 
As  your  dear  blood  as  crimson  red, 

As  deathless  as  your  virtues  dear. 
Here  in  this  vale  of  Wa-ii-lat-pu 

Each  wandering  zephyr  speaks  of  you. 

50 


The  waving  grass,  the  brookside  grove, 

The  tangled  thickets  of  wild  rose, 
And  bending  birch,  that  droops  above 

The  bed  where  Walla  Walla  flows; 
The  glorious  morns,  the  sultry  noons, 

The  blazoned  sunsets  of  the  plains, 
The  starry  nights,  and  white-fire  moons, 

The  golden  fields  of  ripening  grains, 
That  prove  this  land,  in  God's  great  plan, 

The  last,  best  heritage  of  man! 

Yours  was  the  first  of 'womanhood 

Whose  eyes  beheld,  whose  mind  could  reach 
The  heights  where  beauty,  use  and  good, 

Stood  beckoning;  who  longed  to  teach 
An  untaught  and  unteachable  race, 

To  see,  seize  and  enjoy.     What  though 
You  failed  of  purpose?     We  still  trace 

The  God-word  thought,  and  feel  and  know 
Your  life's  deep  lesson,  brought  to  view 

In  the  red  poppies  of  Wa-ii-lat-pu. 

Walla  Walla,  1877. 


f.l 


A  LYRIC  OF  LIFE. 

Said  one  to  me:     "I  seem  to  be 
Like  a  bird  blown  out  to  sea, 
In  the  hurricane's  wild  track — 
Lost,  wing-weary,  beating  back 
Vainly  toward  a  fading  shore, 
It  shall  rest  on  nevermore." 

Said  I:     "Betide,  some  good  ships  ride, 

Over  all  the  waters  wide; 

Spread  your  wings  upon  the  blast, 

Let  it  bear  you  far  and  fast — 

In  some  sea  serene  and  blue, 

Succor-ships  are  waiting  you.'' 

This  soul  then  said:     "Would  I  were  dead, 
Billows  rolling  o'er  my  head; 
Those  that  sail  the  ships  will  cast 
Storm-waifs  back  into  the  blast; 
Omens  evil  will  they  call 
What  the  hurricane  lets  fall." 

For  my  reply:     "Beneath  the  sky 

Countless  isles  of  beauty  lie: 

Waifs  upon  the  ocean  thrown, 

After  tossings  long  and  lone, 

To  those  blessed  shores  have  come, 

Finding  there  love,  heaven,  and  home." 

52 


This  soul  to  me:     "The  seething  sea, 

Tossing  hungry  under  me, 

I  fear  to  trust;  the  ships  I  fear; 

I  see  no  isle  of  beauty  near; 

The  sun  is  blotted  out — no  more 

'Twill  shine  for  me  on  any  shore.1*' 

Once  more  I  said:     "Be  not  afraid; 
Yield  to  the  storm  without  a  dread; 
For  the  tree,  by  tempests  torn 
From  its  native  soil,  is  borne 
Green,  to  where  its  ripened  fruit 
Gives  a  sturdy  forest  root. 

"That  which  we  lose,  we  think  we  choose, 

Oft,  from  slavery  to  use. 

Shocks  that  break  our  chains,  tho'  rude, 

Open  paths  to  highest  good: 

Wise,  my  sister  soul,  is  she 

Who  takes  of  life  the  proffered  key." 


LOVE. 

Love  robs  the  "dread  unknown"  of  any  dread; 

"\Ve  live  in  deeds,  not  years,  not  years,"   the  poet 

said; 

And  loving  deeds  in  widening  cycles  move 
Until  they  climb  to  God,  the  fount  of  love. 

53 


BEAUTIFUL  SOUL. 

Stay,  Soul  Beautiful,  stay,  oh,  stay! 

Listen  again  to  my  crying,  dear; 
Pause  even  while  pursuing  your  way 

To  your  home  in  heaven's  most  shining  sphere. 

Beautiful  Soul,  how  came  you  so  fair? 

Did  God  when  He  made  vou  leave  uut  sin, — 
With  so  little  of  earth  and  so  much  of  air 

That  the  dust  fell  away  from  the  spirit  within? 

As  a  drop  of  dew  in  its  delicate  sphere 

Holds  imprisoned  a  globe  of  the  morning  light, 

And  exhaling  frees  to  the  amosphere 

The  molecule  of  sun  it  has  stayed  in  its  flight, 

So  you  lived  in  your  beautiful  body,  Sweet, 

And  shone  through  its  white  and  dainty  mould; 

So  you  passed  away  from  world's  toil  and  heat 
To  the  glory  that  gathered  you  in  its  fold. 

And  I?     Will  my  soul  when  it  is  free 
Discover  the  print  of  your  spirit  feet, 

And  follow  and  find?     O  ecstacy, 

To  come  where  you  are,  my  Sweet,  my  Sweet! 

Drop  down  along  your  shimmering  way 
The  golden  dust  of  your  shining  wings, 

And  haste  not  too  much,  but  pause  and  stay 
While  my  soul  essays  its  journeyings, 
54. 


For,  dearest  Dear,  you  "must  not  forget, 
Because  you're  in  heaven,  and  I  on  earth, 

The  sweet  love  bond  that  binds  us  yet, 
And  what  to  me  is  its  meaning  and  worth: 

It  means  that  no  matter  where  you  may  be — 
But  I  know  where  you  are  there  must  be  bliss — 

To  no  other  heaven  can  my  spirit  flee, 
Beautiful  Soul,  but  only  to  this. 

And  perhaps  were  it  not  that  you  are  there. 
For  me  to  desire,  and  seek,  and  gain, 

O  my  Sweet,  my  Sweet,  I  should  fail  to  dare 
The  heights  you  would  help  me  to  attain. 

Leave  me,  along  the  wondrous  way, 
Some  token  my  soul  may  understand; 

From  your  lambent  vesture  part  a  ray, 
Or  loosen  within  your  shining  hand 

Some  radiant  blossoms  to  fall  along 
Your  ariel  path,  like  stars  new  born; 

Tune  the  motionless  ether  to  a  song; 

Or  breathe  through  it  fragrance  like  the  morn : 

But  O,  Soul  Beautiful,  on  your  way 
In  and  out  'mong  the  spheres  of  light, 

Be  sure  that  I  am  not  left  to  stray, 

When  to  seek  you,  and  find  you  I  take  my  flight. 

55 


I'll  come  as  a  perfume,  a  color,  a  thought. 

And  touch  you  with  fingers  more  light  than  a  look, 

'Till  you  tremble  and  thrill,  and  I  know  you  have  caugl 
The  remembrance  of  earth,  and  the  love  you  forsool 

I  will  surely  follow,  through  doubt  and  fear, 
To  sit  at  your  feet  in  your  bowers  of  bliss; 

Beautiful  Soul,  my  dearest  Dear, 
Fly  not  too  far,  lest  the  way  I  miss. 

For  the  universe  is  long  and  wide, 

And  your  elements  so  etherial  fine, 
If  by  any  chance  I  should  pass  aside. 

My  heaven  would  be  lost  in  seeking  thine. 


TO  MY  VALENTINE. 

Vexed  with  the  day's  long  toil  of  thought. 
I  fly  to  where  it  cometh  not; 
I   ope  my  door — a  fine  perfume 
Pervades  the  quiet  of  my  room. 
A  glance — I  cry  out  with  delight 
"The  Saint!  the  Saint!"     O  blessed  sprite, 
Thrice  welcome  when  you  come  with  flower? 
To  sweeten  my  reposeful  hours! 

February   14,    1888. 

56 


ASPASIA. 

O,  ye  Athenians,  drunken  with  self-praise, 

What  dreams  I  had  of  you,  beside  the  sea, 
In  far  Miletus,  while  the  golden  days 

Slid  into  silver  nights,  so  sweet  to  me; 
For  then  I.  dreamed  my  day-dreams  sweetly  o'er, 

Fancying  the  touch  of  Pallas  on  my  brow — 
Libations  of  both  heart  and  wine  did  pour. 

And  offered  up  my  being  with  my  vow. 

Twas  thus  to  Athens  my  heart  drew  at  last — 

My  life,  my  soul,  myself.     Ah,  well,  I  learn 
To  love  and  loathe  the  bonds  that  hold  me  fast, 

Your  captive  and  your  conqueror  in  turn; 
Am  I  not  shamed  to  match  my  charms  with  those 

Of  fair  boy-beauties?  gentled  for  your  love 
To  match  the  freshness  of  the  morning  rose, 

And  lisp  in  murmurs  like  the  cooing  aove? 

O,  men  of  Athens,  by  the  purple   sea 

In  far  Miletus,  when  I  dreamed  of  you, 
Watching  the  winged  ships  ^bat  invited  me 

To  follow  their  white  track  upon  the  blue; 
'Twas  the  desire  to  mate  my  lofty  soul 

That  drew  me  ever  like  a  viewless  chain 
Toward  Homer's  land  of  heroes,  'till  I  stole 

Away  from  home  and  dreams,  to  you  and  pain. 

57 


I  brought  you  beauty — but  your  boys  invade 

My  woman's  realm  of  love  with  girlish  airs; 
1  brought  high  gifts,  and  powers  to  persuade. 

To  charm,  to  teach,   with  your  philosophers. 
But  knowledge  is  man's  realm  alone,  you  hold, 

And  I  who  am  your  equal  am  cast  down 
Level  with  those  who  sell  themselves  for  gold — 

A  crownless  queen — a  woman  of  the  town. 

Ye  vain  Athenians,  know  this,  that  I 

By  your  hard  laws  am  only  made  more  free; 
Your  unloved  dames  may  sit  at  home  and  cry, 

But,  being  unwed,  I  meet  you  openly, 
A  foreigner,  you  cannot  wed  with  me; 

But  I  can  win  your  hearts  and  sway  your  will, 
And  make  your  free  wives  envious  to  see 

What  power  Aspasia  wields,  Milesian  still. 

Who  would  not  be  beloved  of  Pericles? 

I  could  have  had  all  Athens  at  my  feet, 
And  have  them  for  my  flatterers,  when  I  please, 

Yet,  one  great  man's  great  love  is  far  more  sweet 
He  is  my  proper  mate  as  I  am  his — 

You  see  my  young  dreams  were  not  all  in  vain— 
And  I  have  tasted  of  ineffable  bliss, 

If  I  am  stung  at  times  with  fiery  pain. 

58 


It  is  not  that  I  long  to  be  a  wife 

By  your  Athenian  laws,  and  sit  at  home 
Behind  a  lattice,  prisoner  for  life, 

With  my  lord  left  at  liberty  to  roam; 
Nor  is  it  that  I  crave  the  right  to  be 

At  the  symposium  or  the  Agora  known; 
My  grievance  is,  that  your  proud  dames  to  me 

Come  to  be  taught,  in  secret  and  alone. 

They  fear — what  do  they  fear?     Is't  me  or  you? 

Am  I  not  pure  as  any  of  them  all? 
But  your  laws  are  against  me;  and  'tis  true. 

If  fame  is  lowering,,  I  have  had  a  fall. 
O,  selfish  men  of  Athens,  shall  the  world 

Remember  you,  and  pass  my  glory  by? 
Nay,  'til  from  their  proud  heights  your  names  are  hurled, 

Mine  shall  blaze  with  them  on  your  Grecian  sky. 

Am  I  then  boastful?     It  is  half  in  scorn 

Of  caring  for  your  love,  or  for  your  praise, 
As  women  do,  and  must.     Had  I  been  born 

In  this  proud  Athens,  I  had  spent  my  days 
In  jealousy  of  boys,  and  stolen  hours 

With  some  Milesian,  of  a  questioned  place, 
Learning  of  her  the  use  of  woman's  powers 

Usurped  by  men  of  this  patrician  race. 

59 


Alas,  I  would  I  were  a  child  again, 

Steeped  in  dream  languors  by  the  purple  sea, 
And  Athens  but  the  vision  it  was  then, 

Its  great  men  good,  its  noble  women  free — 
That  I  on  some  winged  ship  should  strive  to  fly 

To  reach  this  goal,  and  founder  and  go  down. 
O,  impious  thought !  how  could  I  wish  to  die, 

With  all  that  I  have  felt  and  learned  unknown? 


Nay,  I  am  glad  to  be  to  future  times 

As  much  Athenian  as  is  Pericles; 
Proud  to  be  named  by  men  of  other  climes 

The  friend  and  pupil  of  great  Socrates. 
What  is  the  gossip  of  the  city  dames 

Behind  their  lattices  to  one  like  me? 
More  glorious  than  their  high  patrician  names 

I  hold  my  privilege  of  being  free! 

And  yet  I  would  that  they  were  free  as  I; 

It  angers  me  that  women  are  so  weak, 
Looking  askanre  when  ere  they  pass  me  by 

Lest  on  a  chince  their  lords  should  see  us  speak 
And  coming  next  day  to  an  audience 

In  hope  of  learning  to  resemble  me: 
They  wish,  they  tell  me,  to  learn  eloquence — 

The  lesson  they  should  learn  is  liberty. 

60 


O,  Athens,  city  of  the  beautiful, 

Home  of  all  art,  all  elegance,  all  grace, 
Whose  orators  and  poets  sway  the  soul 

As  the  winds  move  the  sea's  unstable  face; 
O,  wondrous  city,  nurse  and  home  of  mind, 

This  is  my  oracle  to  you  this  day- 
No  generous  growth  from  starved  roots  will  you  find, 

But  fruitless  blossoms  weakening  to  decay. 

You  take  my  meaning?    Sappho  is  no  more, 

And  no  more  Sapphos  will  be,  in  your  time; 
The  tree  is  dead  on  one  side  that  before 

Ran  with  such  burning  sap  of  love  and  rhyme. 
Your  glorious  city  is  the  utmost  flower 

Of  a  one-sided  culture,  that  will  spend 
Itself  upon  itself,  'till,  hour  by  hour, 

It  runs  its  sources  dry,  and  so  must  end. 

That  race  is  doomed  behind  whose  lattices 

Its  once  free  women  are  constrained  to  peer 
Upon  the  world  of  men  with  vacant  eves: 

It  was  not  so  in  Homer's  time,  I  hear. 
But  Eastern  slaves  have  eaten  of  your  store, 

Till  in  your  homes  all  eating  bread  are  slaves; 
They're  built  into  your  walls,  beside  your  door, 

And  bend  beneath  your  lofty  architraves. 

61 


A  woman  of  the  race  that  looks  upon 

The    sculptured   emblems    of   captivity 
Shall  bear  a  slave  or  tyrant  for  a  son, 

And  none  shall  know  the  worth  of  liberty. 
Am  I  seditious?     Nay,  then,  I  will  keep 

My  lesson  for  your  dames  when  next  they  steal 
On  tip-toe  to  an  audience.     Pray  sleep 

Securely,  and  dream  well:  we  wish  your  weal. 

Why,  what  vain  prattle?     But  my  heart  is  sore 

With  thinking  of  the  emptiness  of  things, 
And  these  Athenians,  treacherous  to  the  core, 

Who  hung  on  Pericles  with  flatterings. 
I  would,  indeed,  I  were  a  little  child, 

Resting  my  tired  limbs  on  the  sunnv  sands 
In  far  Miletus,  where  the  airs  blow  mild. 

And  countless  looms  throb  under  busy  hands. 

The  busy  hand  must  calm  the  busy  thought, 

And  labor  cool  the  passions  of  the  hour; 
To  the  tired  weaver,  when  his  web  is  wrought, 

What  signifies  the  party  last  in  power? 
But  here  in   Athens,  'twixt  philosophers 

Who  reason  on  the  nature  of  the  soul, 
And  all  the  vain  array  of  orators, 

Who  strive  to  hold  the  people  in  control; 

62 


Between  the  poets,  artists,  critios,  all, 

Who  form  a  faction,  or  who  found  a  school, 
We  weave  Penelope's  web  with  hearts  of  gall, 

And  my  poor  brain  is  oft  the  weary  tool. 
Yet  do  I  choose  this  life.     What  is  to  me 

Peace  or  good  fame,  away  from  all  of  these, 
But  living  death?     I  do  choose  liberty, 

And  leave  to  Athens'  dames  their  soulless  ease. 

The  time  shall  come,  when  Athens  is  no  more, 

And  you  and  all  your  gods  have  passed  away, 
That  other  men,  upon  another  shore, 

Shall  from  your  errors  learn  a  better  way. 
To  them  eternal  justice  will  reveal 

Eternal  truth,  and  in. its  better  light 
All  that  your  legal  falsehoods  now  conceal 

Will  stand  forth  clearly  in  the  whole  world's  sight. 


ON  SAN   FRANCISCO  BAY. 

O  perfect  day,  O  sunlit  Bay, 

Whene'er  our  souls  are  called  to  sail 
The  sunless  strait  where  shadows  wait, 

May  we  emerge  into  a  vale 
Where  Angel  Islands  guard  the  gate! 

San  Francisco,    September  1886. 
63 


AUTUMN  IN  THE  HILLS. 

November  came  that  day, 

And  all  the  air  was  gray 

With  delicate  mists,  blown  down 
From  hilltops  by  the  south  wind's  balmy  breath; 

And  all  the  oaks  were  brown 
As  Egypt's  kings  in  death. 

The  maple's  crown  of  gold 

Laid  tarnished  on  the  wold; 
The  alder,  and  the  ash,  the  aspen  and  the  willow, 
Wore  tattered  suits  of  yellow. 

The  soft  October  rains 
Had  left  some  scarlet  stains 
Of  color  on  the  landscape's  neutral  ground; 
Those  fine  ephemeral  things, 

The  winged  notes  of  sound, 
That  sing  the  ''Harvest  Home" 
Of  ripe  Autumn  in  the  gloam 

Of  the  deep  and  bosky  woods,  in  the  field  and  by  the    ri 
Sang  that  day  their  best  endeavor. 

I  said:     "In  what  sweet  place 
Shall  we  meet,  face  -to  face, 
Her  loveliest  self  to  see — 
Meet  Nature,  at  her  sad  autumnal  rites, 
And  learn  the  mystery 
Of  her  unnamed  delights?" 

64 


IVben  you  said,   "Let  us  go 
Where  the  late  violets  blow 
Under  dead  oak  leaves  hiding." 


Then  you  said:     "Let  us  go 
Where  the  late  violets  blow 

In  hollows  of  the  hills,  under  dead  oak  leaves  hiding: 
We'll  find  she's  there  abiding." 

Do  we  recall  that  day? 

Has  its  grace  passed  away— 

Its  tenderest,  dream-like  tone. 
Like  one  of  Turner's  landscapes  limned  on  air — 

Has  its  fine  perfume  flown 
And  left  the  memory  bare? 

Not  so;  its  charm  is  still 

Over  wood,  vale  and  hill— 

The  ferny  odor  sweet,  the  humming  insect  chorus, 
The  spirit  that  before  us 

Enticed  us  with  delights 

To  the  blue,  breezy  heights. 

O,  beautiful  hills  that  stand 
Serene  'twixt  earth  and  heaven,  with  the  grace 

Of  both  to  make  you  grand, — 
Your  loveliness  leaves  place 

For  nothing  fairer,   fair, 

And  complete  beyond  compare, 
O,  lovely  purple  hills!     O,  first  day  of  November, 
Be  sure  that  I   remember. 

Salem.  Or.,  1869. 

65 


LINES  TO  A  LUMP  OF  VIRGIN  GOLD. 

Dull,  yellow,  heavy,  lusterless — 

With  less  of  radiance  than  the  burnished  tress, 

Crumpled  on  Beauty's  forehead;  clodish,  cold, 

Kneaded  together  with  the  common  mold; 

Worn  by  sharp  contact  with  the  fretted  edges 

Of  ancient  drifts,  or  prisoned  in  deep  ledges; 

Hidden  within  some  mountain's  rugged  breast 

From  man's  desire  and  quest — 

Would  them  couldst  speak  and  tell  the  mystery 

That   shrines   thy   history! 

Yet  'tis  of  little  consequence, 

Today,  to  know  how  them  wert  made,  or  whence 

Earthquake  and  flood  have  brought  thee;  them  art  here, 

At  once  the  master  that  men  love  and  fear; 

Whom  they  have  sought  by  many  strange  devices, 

In  ancient  riverbeds;  in  interstices 

Of  hardest  quartz;  upon  the  wave-wet  strand, 

Where  curls  the  tawny  sand; 

By  mountain  torrents  hurried  to  the  main, 

And  thence  hurled  back  again:— 

Yes,  suffered,  dared,  and  patiently 
Offered  up  everything,  ()  gold,  to  thee — 
Home,  wife  and  children,  native  soil,  and  all 
That  once  they  deemed  life's  sweetest,  at  thy  call; 

66 


Fled  over  burning  plains;  in  deserts  fainted; 
Wearied  for  months  at  sea — yet  ever  painted 
Thee  as  the  shining  Mecca,  that  to  gain 
Invalidated  pain, 

Cured  the  sick  soul — made  nugatory  evil 
Of  man  or  devil. 

Alas,  and  well-a-day!  we  know 

What  idle  dreams  were  these  that  fooled  men  so. 

On  yonder  hillside  sleep  in  nameless  graves, 

To  which  they  went  untended,  the  poor  slaves 

Of  fruitless  toil;  the  victims  of  a  fever 

Called  homesickness — no  remedy  found  ever; 

Or  slain  by  vices  that  grow  rankly  where 

Men  madly  do  and  dare, 

In  alternations  of  high  hope  and  deep  abysses 

Of  recklessnesses. 

Painfully,  and  by  violence, 

Even  as  heaven  is  taken,  thou  wert  dragged  whence 

Nature  had  hidden  thee — whose  face  is  worn 

With  anxious  furrows,  and  her  bosom  torn 

In  the  hard  strife — and  ever  yet  there  lingers 

Upon  these  hills  work  for  the  effacing  fingers 

Of  time,  the  healer,  who  makes  all  things  seem 

A  half  forgotten  dream; 

Who  smooths  deep  furrows  and  lone  graves  together, 

By  touch  of  wind  and  weather. 

67 


Thou  heavy,  lusterless,  dull  clod, 

Digged  from  the  earth  like  a  base,  common  sod, 

I  wonder  at  thee,  and  thy  power  to  hold 

The  world  in  bond  to  thee,  thou  yellow  gold. 

Yet  do  I  sadly  own  thy  fascination, 

And  would  I  gladly  show  my  estimation 

By  giving  house-room  to  thee,  if  thou'lt  come 

And  cumber  up  my  home; — 

I'd  even  promise  not  to  call  attention 

To  these  things  that   I   mention. 

''The  King  can  do  no  wrong,"  and  thou 
Art  King  indeed  to  most  of  us,  I  trow. 
Thou'lt  an  enchanter,  at  whose  sovereign  will 
All  that  there  is  of  progress,  learning,  skill, 
Of  beauty,  culture,  grace — and  I  might  even 
Include  religion,  though  that  flouts  at  heaven-  - 
Comes  at  thy  bidding,  flies  before  thy  loss — 
And  yet  men  call  thee  dross — 
If  thou  art  dross,  then  I  mistaken  be 
Of  thy  identity. 

Ah,  solid,  weighty,  beautiful! 
How  could  I  first  have  said  that  thou  wert  dull? 
How  could  have  wondered  that  men  willingly 
Gave  up  their  homes,  and  toiled  and  died  for  thee? 
Theirs  was  the  martyrdom  in  which  was  planted 
A  glorious  state,  by  precious  memories  haunted; 

68 


Ours  is  the  comfort,  ease,  the  power,  and  fame 
Of  an   exalted  name; 

Theirs  was  the  struggle  of  a  proud  ambition — 
Ours  the  full  fruition. 

Thou,  yellow  nugget,  wert  the  star 

That  drew  these  willing  votaries  from  afar, 

'Twere  wrong  to  call  thee  lusterless  or  base, 

That  lighted  onward  all  the  human  race. 

Emblem  them  art,  in  every  song  or  story, 

Of  highest  excellence  and  brightest  glory; 

Thou  crown'st  the  angels,  and  enthronest  Him 

Who  made  the  cherubim. 

My  reverent  thought,  indeed,  is  not  withholden, 

O  nugget  golden! 


SUNSET  AT  THE  MOUTH  OF  THE  COLUMBIA. 

There  sinks  the  sun;  like  cavalier  of  old, 

Servant  of  crafty  Spain, 
He  flaunts  his  banner,  barred  with  blood  and  gold, 

Wide  o'er  the  western  main; 
A  thousand  spear-heads  glint  beyond  the  trees 

In  columns  bright  and  long, 
While  kindling  fancy  hears  upon  the  breeze 

The  swell  of  shout  and  song. 

69 


And  yet,  not  here  Spain's  gay,  adventurous  host, 

Dipped  sword  or  planted  cross; 
The  treasures  guarded  by  this  rock-bound  coast, 

Counted  them  gain  nor  loss. 
The  blue  Columbia,  sired  by  the  eternal  hills, 

And  wedded  with  the  sea, 
O'er  golden  sands,  tithes  from  a  thousand  rills, 

Rolled  in  lone  majesty — 

Through  deep  ravine,  through  burning,  barren  plain. 

Through  wild  and  rocky  strait, 
Through  forests  dark,  and  mountains  rent  in  twain, 

Toward  the  sunset  gate, 
While  curious  eyes,  keen  with  the  lust  of  gold. 

Caught  not  the  informing  gleam, 
These  mighty  breakers  age  on  age  have  rolled 

To  meet  this  mighty  stream. 

Age  after  age  these  noble  hills  have  kept, 

The  same  majestic  lines: 
Age  after  age  the  horizon's  edge  been  swept 

By  fringe  of  pointed  pines. 
Summers  and  Winters  circling  came  and  went. 

Bringing  no  change  of  scene; 
Unresting,  and  unhasting,  and  unspent, 

Dwelt  nature  here  serene. 


Till  God's  own  time  to  plant  of  Freedom's  seed. 

In  this  selected  soil. 
Denied  forever  unto  blood  and  greed, 

But  blest  to  honest  toil. 
There  sinks  the  sun!     Gay  Cavalier  no  more, 

His  banners  trail  the  sea, 
And  all  his  legions  shining  on  the  shore 

Fade  into  mystery. 

The  swelling  tide  laps  on  the  shingly  beach, 

Like  any  starving  thing, 
And  hungry  breakers,  white  with  wrath,  upreach, 

In  a  vain  clamoring. 
The  shadows  fall;  just  level  with  mine  eye 

Sweet  Hesper  stands  and  shines, 
And  shines  beneath  an  arc  of  golden  sky, 

Pinked  round  with  pointed  pines. 

A  noble  scene,  all  breadth,  deep  tone  and  power. 

Suggesting  glorious  themes, 
Shaming  the  idler  who  would  fill  the  hour 

With  unsubstantial  dreams. 
Be  mine  the  dreams  prophetic,  shadowing  forth 

The  things  that  yet  shall  be, 
As  through  this  gate  the  treasures  of  the  North 

Flow  outward  to  the  sea. 

Astoria,   Or.,   1865. 

71 


PALO  SANTO. 

In  the  deep  woods  of  Mexico, 

Where  screams  the  painted  paroquet. 
And  mocking-birds  flit  to  and  fro 

With  borrowed  notes  they  half  forget; 
Where  brilliant  flowers  and  noxinoes  vines 

Are  mingled  in  a  firm  embrace, 
And  the  same  gaudy  plant  entwines 

Some  reptile  of  a  poisonous  race; 
Where  spreads  the  itos'  icy  shade, 

Benumbing,  even  in  summer's  heat, 
The  thoughtless  traveler  who  hath  laid 

Himself  to  noonday  slumbers  sweet; 

Where  skulks  unseen  the  "beast  of  prey, 

The  native  robber  glares  and  hides, 
And  treacherous  death  keeps  watch  alway 

On  him  who  flies,  or  he  who  bides: 
In  these  deep  tropic  woods  there  grows 

A  tree,  whose  tall  and  silvery  bole 
Above  the  dusky  forest  shows, 

As  shining  as  a  saintly  soul 
Among  the  souls  of  sinful  men, 

Lifting  its  milk-white  flowers  to  heaven, 
And  breathing  incense  out,  as  when 

The  passing  saints  of  earth  are  shriven. 

72 


The  skulking  robber  drops  his  eyes, 

And  signs  himself  with  holy  cross, 
If,  far  between  him  and  the  skies, 

He  sees  its  pearly  blossoms  toss. 
The  wanderer  halts  to  gaze  upon 

The  lovely  vision,  far  or  near, 
And  smiles  and  sighs  to  think  of  one 

He  wishes  for  the  moment  here. 
The  Mexic  native  fears  not  fang 

Of  poisonous  serpent,  vine,  or  bee, 
If  he  may  soothe  the  baleful  pang 

With  juices  of  this  "holy  tree.'' 

How  do  we  all,  in  life's  wild  ways, 
Which  oft  we  traverse  lost  and  lone, 

Need  that  which  heavenward  draws  the  gaze, 
Some  Palo  Santo  of  our  own! 


THE   PASSING   OF  ALICE. 

In  the  city,  hot  and  breathless   city, 
At  her  open  casement  wide  and  high, 

With  a  face  that  moves  our  hearts  to  pity, 
Leans  pale  Alice,  gazing  on  the  sky; 

Gazing  out  above  the  housetops  dreary, 

73 


Where  the  countless  chimneys  crowd  the  view. 
Seeking  with  a  wistful  look  and  weary 

Through  the  smoke,  a  glimpse  of  heaven's  blue. 

Sighing  "  Tis  June;  I  see  the  pleasant  meadows 

'Round  my  home  lie  peaceful  in  the  sun; 
Fleecy  clouds  flit  overhead,  and  shadows 

Chase  the  wind-blown  dimples  as  they  run 
Down  the  ripening  hay-fields,  and  the  clover 

Nods  its  honied  blossoms  in  the  breeze; 
Sun-steeped  sweetnesses  exhale,  and  over 

Cups  of  nectar  drone  the  laden  bees. 

Down  the  lane  the  locust  trees  are  shining, 

White  with  scented  plumes,  too  sickly  sweet, 
Dainty   eglantine,   the   fences   twining, 

Sheds  its  fragrance  to  the  quiet  street; 
In  the  elms  that  meet  above  our  dwelling 

Orioles  swing,  singing  to  their  young — 
Happy  birds,  whose  pretty  throats  are  swelling 

With  the  joy  of  their  home-coming  song. 

List!     I  hear  the  children's  voices  singing 
Roundelays,  as  they  bring  home  the  kine, 

Sweet-breathed  heifers  'round  whose  necks  are  clinging 
Garlands  of  some  flowering  wayside  vine; 

Hear  my  mother,  as  they  laugh  and  linger, 

74 


Call  each  name — her  rosary  of  pearls — 
See  her  touch  each  one  with  gentle  finger, 
This  one's  cheek,  and  that  one's  sunny  curls; 

Hear  my  father's  mellow  tones  commingling 

With  the  sounds  a-field,  the  click  of  hoes, 
The  clashing  of  the  corn-blades,  the  ear-tingling, 

Faint-growing  shots  along  the  bristling  rows. 
Oh,  the  free,  fair  haven  of  my  childhood! 

Oh,  the  sweet,  sure  love  that  never  failed! 
Oh,  the  pure,  bright  fancies  dreamed  in  wildwood 

Ere  the  dews  of  life's  young  morn  exhaled! 

Is  this  summer?     I  am  cold  and  weary. 

June?     I  see  the  pleasant  fields  no  more. 
Home?     The  landscape  wintry  is  and  dreary, 

And  no  mother  meets  me  at  the  door." — 
Ah,  her  eyes  are  closed  upon  these  shadows; 

Hushed  for  her  the  birds'  song,  the  bees'  drone 
As  her  white  feet  touch  the  heavenly  meadows, 

Sweet  with  asphodel,  she  finds  her  own. 


75 


PALMA. 

What  tellest  thou  to  heaven, 
Thou  royal  tropic  tree? 
At  morn  or  noon  or  even. 
Proud  dweller  by  the  sea, 
What  is  thy  song"  to  heaven? 

The  homesick  heart  that  fainted 
In  torrid  sun  and  air, 
With  peace  becomes  acquainted 
Beholding  thee  so  fair — 
With  joy  becomes  acquainted: 

And  charms  itself  with  fancies 
About  thy  kingly  race, 
With  gay  and  wild  romances 
That  mimic  thee  in  grace 
Of  supple,  glorious  fancies. 

I  feel  thou  art  not  tender, 
Scion  of  sun  and  sea — 
The  wild-bird  does  not  render 
To  thee  its  minstrelsy- 
Fearing  thou  art  not  tender: 

But  calm,  serene  and  saintly, 
As  highborn  things  should  be, 

76 


Who,  if  they  love  us  faintly, 
Make  us  love  reverently, 
Because  they  are  so  saintly. 

To  be  loved  without  loving, 
O  proud  and  princely  palm, 
Is  to  fancy  our  ship  moving 
With  the  ocean  at  dead  calm— 
The  joy  of  love  is  loving. 

Because  the  sun  did  sire  thee, 
The  ocean  nurse  thy  youth, - 
Because  the  stars  desire  thee, 
The  warm  winds  whisper  truth, 
Shall  nothing  ever  fire  thee? 

What  is  thy  tale  to  heaven 
In  the  sultry  tropic  noon? 
What  whisperest  thou  at  even 
To  the  dusky  Indian  moon — 
Has  she  sins  to  be  forgiven? 

Keep  all  her  secrets,  loyal 
As  only  great  souls  are — 
As  only  souls  most  royal, 
To  the  flower  or  to  the  star 
Alike  are  purely  loyal. 

77 


0  Palma,  if  them  hearest, 
Thou  proud  and  princely  tree, 
Thou  knowest  that  my  Dearest 
Is  emblemed  forth  in  thee — 
My  kingly  Palm,  my  Dearest. 

1  am  his  Moon  admiring, 
His  wooing  Wind,  his  Star; 
And  I  glory  in  desiring 
My  Palm-tree  from  afar — 
Glad  as  happier  lovers  are, 
Am  happy  in  desiring. 

Acapulco,  Mexico,  1863. 


EDITH. 

"A  violet  by  a  mossy  stone 

Half  hidden  to  the  eye," 
Sang  Wordsworth  of  that  English  girl 

Who  pleased  the  poet's  eye. 
I  sing  of  one,  a  garden  rose, 

Grown  in  a  freer  air 
As  modest  as  the  violet 

And  many  times  more  fair. 

78 


TO  THE  BLUE  NEMOPHELA. 

Dear  dainty  bloom,  with  disk  ot  blue 
Right  joyfully  I  welcome  you! 
Unlike  the  scented  garden  sweets 
Round  which  each  painted  insect  flits, 
You  stir  my  thoughts  to  pleasant  dreams 
Of  summer  shade  and  murmurous  streams. 
I  hail  thee,  flower  of  heavenly  hue! 
All  that  is  modest,  chaste  and  true 
Peers  from  thy  pretty,  upturned  face — 
Is  breathed  in  thy  unstudied  grace. 
I  gaze  on  thee,  and  fancies  start 
To  sudden  blossom  in  my  heart. 
Years  all  too  quickly  troop  along, 
Named  some  for  sorrow,  some  for  song; 
Ever  the  summer's  heat  we  dread; 
Winter  brings  storms  upon  our  head; 
Yet  spring  returns,  and  in  her  smile 
Earth  hath  forgot  her  wreck  and  toil: 
Sweet  child  of  spring,  a  joy  alway, 
Right  welcome,  blue  Nemophela! 

Alameda,   Cal.,    1885. 


79 


NEVADA. 

Sphinx,  down  whose  rugged  face 
The  sliding  centuries  their  furrows  cleave 
By  sun,  and  frost,  and  cloudburst,  scarce  to  leave 

Perceptible  a  trace 

Of  age  or  sorrow; 

Faint  hints  of  yesterdays  with  no  tomorrow; — 
My  mind  regards  thee  with  a  questioning  eye, 

To  know  thy  secret,  high. 

If  Theban  mystery, 

With  head  of  woman,  soaring,  birdlike  wings 
And  serpent's  tail  on  lion's  trunk,  were  things 

Puzzling  in  history; 

And  men  invented 
For  it  an  origin  which  represented 
Chimera  and  a  monster  double-headed, 

By  myths  Phenician  wedded — 

Their  issue  being  this — 
This  most  chimerical  and  wondrous  thing, 
From  whose  dumb  mouth  not  even  the  gods  could  w 

Truth,  nor  anthithesis: 

Then  what  I  think  is, 

This  creature — being  chief  among  men's  sphinxes — 
Is  eloquent,  and  overflows  with  story, 

Beside  thy  silence  hoary! 

80 


Nevada,  desert,  waste, 
Mighty,  and  inhospitable,  and  stern; 
Hiding  a  meaning  over  which  we  yearn 

In  eager,  panting  haste, 

Grasping  and  losing, 

Still  being  deluded  ever  by  our  choosing, 
Answer  us  Sphinx:     What  is  thy  meaning  double 

But  endless  toil  and  trouble? 

Inscrutable,  men  strive 

To  rend  thy  secret  from  thy  rocky  breast; 
Breaking  their  hearts,  and  periling  heaven's  rest 

For  hopes  that  cannot  thrive; 

Whilst  unrelenting, 

From  thy  unlovely  throne,  and  unrepenting, 
Thou  sittest,  basking  in  a  fervid  sun, 

Seeing  or  hearing  none. 

I  sit  beneath  thy  stars, 

The  shallop  moon  beached  on  a  bank  of  clouds, 
And  see  thy  mountains  wrapped  in  shadowy  shrouds, 

Glad  that  the  darkness  bars 

The  day's  suggestion — 
The  endless  repetition  of  one  question; 
Glad  that  thy  stony  face  I  cannot  see, 

Nevada — Mystery ! 

Shermantown,  Nev.,  1869. 

81 


CHILDHOOD. 

A  child  of  scarcely  seven  years. 

Light-haired,  and  fair  as  any  lily, 
With  pure   eyes   ready  in  their  tears 

At  chiding  words,  or  glances  chilly, 
And  sudden  smiles,  as  inly  bright 

As  lamps  through  alabaster  shining, 
With  ready  mirth,  and  fancies  light, 

Dashed  with   strange  dreams   of  child-divining; 
A   child  in   all   infantile   grace, 

With  paradise  still  pictured  in  her  face. 

A  curious,  eager,  questioning  child, 

Whose  logic  leads  to  naive  conclusions, 
Her  little  knowledge  reconciled 

To  truth   amid   some   odd   confusions, 
Yet  credulous,  and  loving  much 

The  problems  hardest  for  her  reason, 
Placing  her  lovely  faith  on  such, 

And  deeming  disbelief  a  treason; 
Doubting  that  which  she  can  disprove, 

And  wisely  trusting  all  the  rest  to  love. 

Such  graces  dwell  beside  your  hearth, 
And  bless  you  in  a  priceless  pleasure, 

Leaving  no  sweeter  spot  on  earth 

Than  that  which  holds  your  household  treasure. 

82 


No  entertainment  ever  yet 

Had  half  the  exquisite  completeness — 
The  gladness  without  one  regret, 

You  gather  from  your  darling's  sweetness; 
An  angel  sits  beside  the  hearth 

Where  e'er  an  innocent  child  is  found  on  earth. 


TO  MRS. 


I  have  not  found  the  meaning  out 

That  lies  in  wrong,  and  pain  and  strife 

I  know  not  why  we  grope  through  grief, 
Tear-blind,  to  touch  the  higher  life. 

In  my  unconscious  viens  there  runs, 
Perchance,  some  old  ancestral  taint; 

In  Eve  I  sinned.  Poor  Eve  and  I ! 
We  each  may  utter  one  complaint — 

One  and  the  same — for  knowledge  came 
Too  late  to  save  her  paradise; 

And  I  my  paradise  have  lost 

Forsooth  because  I  am  not  wise. 

O,  vain  traditions,  small  the  aid 
We  women  gather  from  your  lore ; 

Why,  when  the  world  was  lost,  did  death 
Not  come  our  children's  birth  before? 

83 


It  had  been  better  to  have  died 
Sole  prey  of  death,  and  ended  so, 

Than  to  have  dragged  through  endless  time 
One  long,  unbroken  trail  of  woe. 


To  suffer,  yet  not  expiate; 

To  die  at  last  yet  not  atone; 
To  mourn  our  heirship  to  a  guilt 

Erased  by  innocent  blood  alone! 


You  lift  your  hands  in  shocked  surprise, 
You  say  enough  I  have  not  prayed; 

Can  prayer  go  back  through  centuries 
And  change  the  web  of  fate  one  braid? 


Nay,  own  the  truth,  and  say  that  we 
Are  but  the  bonded  slaves  of  doom. 

Unconscious  to  the  cradle  came, 
Unwilling  must  go  to  the  tomb. 

I  wait  to  find  the  meaning  out 
That  lies  beyond  the  bitter  end; 

Comfort   yourself  with   wearying-   heaven, 
I  find  no  comfort,  O  my  friend. 

84 


BY  THE  SEA. 

Blue  is  the  mist  on  the  mountains, 
White  is  the  fog  on  the  sea, 

Ruby  and  gold  is  the  sunset — 
And  Bertha  is  waiting  for  me. 

Down  on  the  lonesome  sand  beach, 
Her  eyes  as  blue  as  the  mist, 

Her  brow  as  white  as  the  sea-fog — 
Bertha,  whose  lips  I  have  kissed. 

Bertha,  whose  lips  are  like  rubies, 
Whose  hair  is  like  coiled  gold, 

Whose  sweet,  rare  smile  is  tenderer 
Than  any  legend  of  old. 

One  morn,  one  noon,  one  sunset, 
Must  pass  before  we  meet; 

O  wind  and  sail  bear  steady  on, 
And  bring  me  to  her  feet. 


The  morn  rose  pale  and  sullen, 
The  noon  was  still  and  dun; 

Across  the  storm  at  sunset, 

Came  the  boom  of  a  signal-gun. 

85 


Who  treads  the  lonesome  sand  beach, 

With  wet,  disordered  hair, 
With  garments  tangled  with  seaweed, 

And  cheeks  more  pale  than  fair? 

O  blue-eyed,  white-browed  maiden, 
He  will  keep  love's  tryst  no  more; 

His  ship  sailed  safely  into  port — 
But  on  the  heavenward  shore. 

Santa  Cruz.,  Cal.,   1804. 


A  GOLDEN  WEDDING. 

Down  the  vista  of  the  years 
Bright  with  joy,  or  dim  with  tears, 

Turning  back  our  gaze, 
Not  a  shadow  falls  between 
You  and  I  in  all  that  scene 

Of  life's  checkered  ways. 
Kindly  by  the  Father  led, 
Since  the  day  that  we  were  wed 

Years  have  fluttered  by, 
Silently  as  leaves  that  fall 
By  the  sunny  garden  wall 

When  the  roses  die. 

L,os    Angeles,    1887. 

86 


WAITING. 

1  cannot  wean  my  wayward  heart  from  waiting, 
Though  the  steps  watched  for  never  come  anear; 

The  wearying  want  clings  to  it  unabating — 
The  fruitless  wish  for  presences  once  dear. 

No  fairer  eve  e'er  blessed  a  poet's  vision, 
No  softer  airs  e'er  kissed  a  fevered  brow, 

No  scene  more  truly  could  be  called  Elysian, 

Than  this  which  holds  my  gaze  enchanted  now. 

And  yet  I  pine; — this  beautiful  completeness 

Is  incomplete,  to  my  desiring  heart; 
'Tis  Beauty's  form,  without  her  soul  of  sweetness — 

The  pure,  but  chiseled  loveliness  of  art. 

There  is  no  longer  pleasure  in  emotion. 

I  envy  those  dead  souls  no  touch  can  thrill, 
Who — "painted  ships  upon  a  painted  ocean," — 

Seem  to  be  moved,  yet  are  forever  still. 

Where  are  they  fled? — they  whose  delightful  voices, 
Whose  very  footsteps  had.  a  charmed  fall: 

No  more,  no  more  their  sound  my  heart  rejoices, 
Change,  death,  and  distance  part  me  now  from  all. 

87 


And  this  fair  evening,  with  remembrance  teeming. 

Pierces  my  soul  with  every  sharp  regret; 
The  sweetest  beauty  saddens  to  my  seeming, 

Since  all  that's  fair  forbids  me  to  forget. 

Eyes  that  have  gazed  upon  yon  silver  crescent, 

'Till  filled  with  light,  then  turned  to  gaze  in  mine, 

Lips  that  could  clothe  a  fancy  evanescent, 

In  words  whose  magic  thrilled  the  brain  like  wine: 

Hands  that  have  wreathed  June's  roses  in  my  tresses, 
And  gathered  violets  to  deck  my  breast, 

Where  are  ye  now?     I  miss  your  dear  caresses — 
I  miss  the  lips,  the  eyes,  that  made  me  blest. 

Lonely  I  sit  and  watch  the  fitful  burning 

Of  prairie  fires,  far  off,  through  gathering  gloom; 

While  the  young  moon,  and  one  bright  star  returning 
Down  the  blue  solitude,  leave  Night  their  room. 

Gone  is  the  glimmer  of  the  silent  river, 

Hushed  is  the  wind  that  op'ed  the  leaves  today; 

Alone  through  silence  falls  the  crystal  shiver 
Of  the  sweet  starlight,  on  its  earthward  way. 

And  yet  I  wait,  how  vainly,  for  a  token — 
A  sigh,  a  touch,  a  whisper  from  the  past; 

Alas,  I  listen  for  a  word  unspoken, 

And  wait  for  arms  that  have  embraced  their  last. 

88 


I  wish  no  more,  as  once  I  wished,  each  feeling 
To  grow  immortal  in  my  happy  breast; 

Since  not  to  feel  will  leave  no  wounds  for  healing— 
The  pulse  that  thrills  not  has  no  need  of  rest. 

As  the  conviction  sinks  into  my  spirit 

That  my  quick  heart  is  doomed  to  death  in  life 

Or  that  these  pangs  must  pierce  and  never  sear  it, 
I  am  abandoned  to  despairing  strife. 

To  the  lost  life,  alas,  no  more  returning, 

In  this  to  come  no  semblance  of  the  past- 
Only  to  wait — hoping  this  ceasless  yearning 

May  'ere  long  end — and  peace  may  come  at  last, 

Omaha,   Neb.,   1857. 


THE  PASSING  OF  THE  YEAR. 

Worn  and  poor 

The  old  year  came  to  Eternity's  door. 
Once  when  his  limbs  were  young  and  strong 
From  that  shining  portal   came  he   forth, 
Led  by  the  sound  of  shout  and  song 
To  the  festive  halls  of  jubilant  earth: 
Now,  his  allotted  cycle  o'er, 
He  waited,  spent,  by  the  Golden  Door. 

89 


Faint  and  far,  faint  and  far, 
Surging  up  soft  between  sun  and  star, 
Strains  of  revelry  smote  his  ear, 
Musical  murmurs  from  lyre  and  lute, 
Rising  in  choruses  grand  and  clear, 
Sinking  in  cadences  almost  mute, 
Vexing  the  ear  of  him  .who  sate 
Wearied  beside  the  Shining  Gate. 

Sad  and  low, 

Flowed  in  an  undertone  of  woe. 
Wailing  among  the  moons  it  came, 
Sobbing  in  echoes  against  the  stars, 
Smothered  behind  some  comet's  flame, 
Lost  in  the  wind  of  the  warlike  Mars, 
Mingling,  ever  and  anon, 
With  the  music's  swell  a  sigh  or  moan. 

"As  in  a  glass 

Let  the  earth  once  before  me  pass," 
The  Old  Year  said;  and  space  untold 
Vanished  'till  nothing  came  between, 
Folded  away,  crystal  and  gold, 
Nor  azure  air  did  intervene — 
"As  in  a  glass''  he  saw  the  earth 
Decking  a  bier,  and  waiting  a  birth. 

90 


"You  crown  me  dead,"  the  Old  Year  said, 

''Before  my  parting  hour  is  sped, 

O  fickle,  false  and  reckless  world! 

Time  to  Eternity  may  not  haste; 

Not  'til  the  last  Hour's  wing  is  furled 

Within  the  gate  my  reign  is  passed: 

0  Earth!     O  World!    fair,  false  and  vain, 

1  grieve  not  at  my  closing  reign." 

Yet  spirit-sore 

The  dead  King  noted  a  palace  door; 
He  saw  the  gay  crowd  gather  in, 
He  scanned  the  face  of  each  passerby, 
Snowiest  soul  and  heart  of  sin, 
Tried  and  untried  humanity, 
Age  and  Youth,  Pleasure  and  Pain, 
Braided  at  chance  in  a  motley  skein. 

"Ill  betide 

Ye  thankless  ones!"  the  Old  Year  cried: 
"Have  I  not  given  you  night  and  day, 
Over  and  over,  score  upon  score, 
Wherein  to  live,  and  love,  and  pray, 
And  suck  the  ripe  world  to  its  rotten  core? 
Yet  do  ye  reek  if  my  reign  be  done? 
Ere  I  pass  ye  crown  the  newer  one. 
At  ball  and  rout  ye  dance  and  shout, 

91 


Shutting  men's  cries  of  suffering  out 
That  startle  the  white-tressed  Silences 
Musing  beside  the  fount  of  light 
In  the  eternal  space,  to  press 
Their  roses,   each  a  nebula  bright, 
More  closely  to  their  lips  serene, 
While  ye  wear  this  unconscious  mien!" 


"Even  so," 

The  revelers  said,  " We'll  have  naught  of  woe 
Why  should  we  mourn  who  have  our  fill? 
Enough  if  the  poor  and  hungry  cry. 
We  from  our  plenty  cast  at  will 
Some  crumbs  to  make  their  wet  eyelids  dry; 
But  to  the  rich  the  world  is  fair, 
Why  should  we  grovel  in  tears  and  prayer?" 


In  her  innocent  bliss 
A  fair  bride  said,  with  sweet  eafnestness, 
''For  the  dear  Year  am  I  truly  sad, 
Since  in  its  happy  and  hopeful  days 
Every  brief  hour  my  heart  was  glad, 
And  blessings  were  strewn  in  all  my  ways : 
Will  it  be  so  forevermore? 
Will  the  New  Years  bring  of  love  new  store?' 

92 


Youth  and  maid, 

Of  their  conscious  blushes  half  afraid, 
Shunning  each  other's  tell-tale  eyes, 
Yet  cherishing  hopes  too  fond  to  own, 
Sped  the  Old  Year  with  secret  sighs, 
And  smiled  that  his  time  was  overflown; 
Should  they  not  hear  each  other  say 
"Dear  Love!"  ere  the  New  Year  passed  away? 

"Oh,  haste  on! 

The  Year  or  the  pleasure  is  dead  that  is  gone," 
Boasted  the  man  of  pomp  and  power: 
"That  which  we  hold  is  alone  the  good, 
Give  me  new  pleasures  for  every  hour, 
And  grieve  over  past  joys  ye  who  would: 
Joys  that  are  fled  are  poor,  I  wis, 
Give  me  forever  the  newest  bliss." 

"Wish  me  joy," 

Girl  Beauty  cried,  with  glances  coy: 
''In  the  New  Year  a  woman  I. 
I'll  then  have  jewels  in  my  hair, 
And  such  rare  webs  as  princes  buy 
Be  none  too  choice  for  me  to  wear: 
I'll  queen  it  as  a  beauty  should 
And  not  be  won  before  I'm  wooed." 

93 


Sighed  a  student  in  the  motley  crowd: 

"  'Poor  and  proud,  poor  and  proud, 
"I  heard  her  whisper  that  aside. 
O  fatal  fairness  aping  heaven 
When  earthly  most!     I'll  not  deride. 
God  knows  that  were  all  good  gifts  given 
To  me  as  lavishly  as  rain, 
I'd  bring  them  to  her  feet  again." 

"Here  are  the  fools  we  use  for  tools, 
Bending  their  passion   ere  it  cools 
To  any  need/'  the  Cynic  said; 
"So,  I  will  give  him  gold,  and  he 
Shall  sell  me  brain  as  it  were  bread. 
His  very  soul  I'll  hold  in  fee 
For  baubles  that  shall  buy  the  hand 
Of  the  coldest  woman  in  the  land." 

Spirit-sore 

The  Old  Year  cared  to  see  no  more; 
While  as  he  turned  he  heard  a  moan; 
Frosty  and  keen  was  the  wintry  night, 
Prone  on  the  city's  paving-stone 
Unwatched,   unwept,   a   piteous   sight 
Starved  and  dying  a  poor  wretch  lay. 
Through  the  blast  he  heard  him  dying  say; 

94 


"O  Old  Year, 

From  sightless  eyes  you  force  this  tear: 

Sorrows  you've  heaped  upon  head, 

Losses  you've  gathered  to  drive  me  wild, 

All  that  I  lived  for,  loved,  are  dead, 

Brother  and  sister,  wife  and  child, 

1,  too,  am  perishing  as  well, 

1  shall  share  the  toll  of  your  passing  bell." 

Grieved  and  sad 

For  the  sins  and  woes  the  Human  had, 
The  Old  Year  strove  to  avert  his  eyes ; 
But  fly  or  turn  wherever  he  would 
On  his  vexed  ear  smote  the  mingled  cries 
Of  revel  and  new-made  widowhood, 
Of  grief  that  would  not  be  comforted, 
With  the  loved  and  beautiful  lying  dead. 

Evermore,   every  hour, 
Rising  from  hovel,  hall  and  bower, 
Swelling  the  strain  of  discontent, 
Gurgled  the  hopeless  prayer  for  alms', 
Rung  out  the  wild  oath  impotent; 
Echoed  by  some  brief  walls  of  calms 
Straining  the  listener's  shrinking  ear 
Like  silence  when  thunderbolts  are  near. 

95 


Across  that  calm,  like  gales  of  balm 
Some  low,  sweet  household  voices  ran, 
Thrilling,  like  flute  notes  straying  out 
From  land  to  sea  some  stormy  night, 
The  ear  that  listens  for  the  shout 
Of  drowning  boatman  lost  to  sight, 
And  died  away  again  so  soon 
The  pulseless  air  seemed  fallen  in  a  swoon. 

Once,  pure  and  clear, 
Clarion  strains  fell  on  the  ear: 
The  preacher  rent  the  soulless  creeds, 
And  pierced  men's  hearts  with  arrowy  words, 
Yet  failed  to  stir  them  to  good  deeds— 
Their  new-fledged  thoughts,  like  July  birds, 
Soared  on  the  air  and  glanced  away 
Before  the  eloquent  voice  could  stay. 

"  Tis  very  sad,  the  man  is  mad," 
The  men  and  women  gaily  said 
As  they  laughing  tread  their  homeward  road, 
Talking  of  other  holidays; 
Of  last  year  how  it  rained  or  snowed, 
Who  went  abroad,  who  wed  a  blaze 
Of  diamonds  with  his  sickly  bride, 
On  certain  days — and  who  had  died. 

96 


"Would  I  were  dead 
And  vexed  no  more,"  the  Old  Year  said; 
"In  vain  may  the  preacher  pray  and  warn, 
The  tinkling  cymbals  in  your  ears 
Turn  every  gracious  word  to  scorn; 
Ye  care  not  for  the  orphan's  tears, 
Your  sides  are  fed  and  your  bodies  clad; 
Is  there  anything  heaven  itself  could  add?" 

And  then  he  sighed  as  one  who  died 
With  a  great  wish  unsatisfied ; 
Around  him  like  a  wintry  sea 
Whose  waves  were  nations,  surged  the  world, 
Stormy,  unstable,  constantly 
Upheaved  to  be  again  down-hurled. 
Here  struggled  some  for  freedom;  here 
Oppression  rode  in  high  career. 

In  hot  debate 

Men  wrestled  while  the  hours  waxed  late, 
Contending  with  the  watchful  zeal 
Of  gladiators  trained  to  die; 
Yet  not  for  life,  nor  country's  weal, 
But  that  their  names  might  hang  on  high 
As  men  who  loved  themselves,  indeed, 
And  robbed  the  state  to  satisfy  their  need. 

97 


Heads  of  snow  and  eyes  aglow 
With  fires  that  youth  might  blush  to  know; 
And  brows  whose  youthful  fairness  shamed 
The  desperate  thoughts  that  strove  within, 
While  each  his  cause  exultant  named 
As  purest  that  the  world  had  seen — 
All  names  they  had  to  tickle  honest  ears — 
Reform,  and  Rights,  and  sweet  Philanthropy's  cares. 

"Wrell-a-day!  well-a-day!" 
The  Old  Year  strove  to  put  away 
Sight  and  sound  of  the  reckless  earth. 
But  soft!  from  out  a  cottage  door 
Stole  strains  of  neither  grief  nor  mirth, 
And  on  his  dying  ear  did  pour — 
"Give  us,  O  God,"  the  singers  said, 
As  good  a  year  as  this  one  dead!" 

Pealing  loud  from  sod  to  cloud 
Earth's  bells  rang  out  in  a  chorus  proud; 
Great  waves  of  music  shook  the  air 
From  organs  pulsing  with  the  sound; 
Hushed  was  the  voice  of  sob  and  prayer 
As  Time  touched  the  eternal  bound; 
To  the  dead  monarch  earth  was  dimmed, 
And  the  golden  portals  brighter  gleamed. 

98 


Sad  no  more 

The  Old  Year  reached  the  Golden  Door 
Just  as  the  Hours  with  crystal  clang 
Aside  the  shining  portals  bent, 
And  murmuring  'mong  the  spheres  there  rang 
The  chorus  of  earth's  acknowledgment. 
One  had  passed  out  of  the  Golden  Door, 
And  one  had  gone  in  forevermore. 


HE  AND   SHE. 

Under  the  pines  sat  a  young  man  and  maiden: 

"Love,"  said  he,  ''life  is  sweet,  think'st  thou  not  so?" 

Sweet  were  her  eyes,  full  of  pictures  of  Aidenn — 
"Life,"  said  she,  "love  is  sweet;  no  more  I  know." 

Into  the  wide  world  the  maid  and  her  lover 

Wandered  by  pathways  that  sundered  them  far; 

From  pine  groves  to  palm  groves  he  flitted,  a  rover, 
She  tended  his  roses,  and  watched  for  his  star. 

Oft  he  said  softly,  while  melting  eyes  glistened, 
"Sweet  is  my  life,  love,  with  you  ever  near"; 

Morning  and  evening  she  waited  and  listened 
For  a  voice  and  a  footstep  that  never  came  near. 

Fainting  at  last  on  her  threshold  she  found  him; 

"Life  is  but  ashes  and  bitter,"  he  sighed. 
She,  with  her  tender  arms  folded  about  him, 

Whispered,  "But  love  is  still  sweet" — and  so  died. 

Sprague  River,   Or.,   1873. 

99 


THE  PLAYER. 

He  played  as  one  walks  in  his  sleep, 
Unconscious  of  the  heights  he  dares, 

Un-souled,  and  treading  unawares 
The  edges  of  a  dangerous  deep. 

I  listened  in  an  ecstacy 

To  music  loved  but  long  forgot, 

And  stealing  softly  to  the  spot 
Gazed  on  the  player  wonderingly. 

I  saw  his  fingers  touch  the  keys 
With  skill  no  master  ever  taught, 

While  all  my  being,  lost  in  thought, 
Vibrated  to  his  harmonies. 

I  saw — it  was  no  idle  dream — 

A  formless  Presence  glide  and  glance 

Behind  the  keys,  a  radiance 
That  on  the  ivory  lit  a  gleam. 

Ah,  then  I  knew  whence  came  the  skill 
That  touched  with  flame  the  instrument, 

And  to  his  dreamy  fingering  lent 
A  power  beyond  the  player's  will. 

The  old,  old  songs  she  loved  so  well, 

By  her  pure  soul  interpreted, 
With  all  the  poet  meant  and  said — 

Thence  came  the  player's  wondrous  spell. 

100 


AUTUMNALIA. 

The  crimson  color  lays  ,    , 

As  bright  as  beauty's  blush  along  the  'West,  '• 

And  a  warm  golden  haze, 
Promising  sheafs  of  ripe  autumnal  days 

To  crown  the  old  year's  crest, 
Hangs  in  mid  air,  a  half-pellucid  maze, 

Through  which  the  sun  at  set, 
Grown  round  and  rosy,  looks  with  Bacchian  blush, 

For  an  old  wine-god  meet, 
Whose  brows  are  dripping  with  the  grape-blood  sweet, 

As  if  his  southern  flush 
Rejoiced  him,  in  his  northern-zoned  retreat. 

The  amber-colored  air 
Musical  is  with  hum  of  tiny  things 

Held  idly  struggling  there, 
As  if  the  golden  mists  entangled  were 

About  the  viewless  wings, 
That  beat  out  music  on  their  gilded  snare. 

If  but  a  leaf,  all  gay 
With  Autumn's  gorgeous  coloring,  doth  fall, 

Along  its  fluttering  way 
A  shrill  alarum  wakes  a  sharp  dismay, 

And,  answering  to  the  call, 
The  insect  chorus  swells  and  dies  away 

101 


With  a  fine  piping  noise, 
As  if  some  younger  singing  motes  cried  out, 

As-  do  mischievous  boys, 
Startling  their 'playmates  with  a  pained  voice, 

Or  sudden  thrilling  shout, 
Followed  by  laughter,  full  of  little  joys. 

Perchance  a  lurking  breeze 
Springs,  just  awakened  to  its  wayward  play, 

Tossing  the  sober  trees 
Into  a  frolic  maze  of  ecstacies, 

And  snatching  at  the  gay 
Banners  of  Autumn,  strews  them  where  it  please. 

The  sunset  colors  glow 
A  second  time  in  flame  from  out  wood, 

As  bright  and  warm  as  though 
The  vanished  clouds  had  fallen,  and  lodged  below 

Among   the   treetops,   hued 
With  all  the  colors  of  heaven's  signal-bow. 

The  fitful  breezes  die 
Into  a  gentle  whisper,  and  then  sleep; 

And  sweetly,  mournfully, 
Starting  to  sight,  in  the  transparent  sky, 

Lone  in  the  upper  deep, 
Sad  Hesper  pours  its  beams  upon  the  eye; 

And  for  one  little  hour, 
102 


Holds  audience  with  the  lesser  lights  of  heaven, 

Then  to  its  western  bower 
Descends  in  sudden  darkness,  as  the  flower 

That  at  the  fall  of  even 
Shuts  its  bright  eye,  and  yields  to  slumber's  power. 

Soon,  with  a  dusky  face, 
Pensive  and  proud  as  an  East  Indian  queen, 

And  with  a  solemn  grace, 
The  moon  ascends,  and  takes  her  royal  place 

In  the  fair  evening  scene, 
While  all  the  reverential  stars,  apace, 
Take  up  their  march  through  the  cool  fields  of  space, 

And  wed  in  the  sweet  day  with  night  serene. 

Ann  Arbor,   Mich.,   1852. 


POETRY. 

The  world's  first  singers  sang  heroic  deeds 

Of  gods  and  men  upon  their  flutelike  reeds; 

Sang  to  the  chorded  shell  and  tinkling  lyre 

Of  themes  that  touched  the  Olympian  heights  with  fire, 

And  made  men  godlike  with  divine  desire. 

103 


A  REPRIMAND. 

Behold  my  soul — she  sits  so  far  above  you 

Your  wildest  dream  has  never  glanced  so  high, 
Yet  in  the  old  time  when  you  said  "I  love  you," 

How  fairly  we  seemed  mated,  eye  to  eye. 
How  long  we  dallied  on  in  flowery  meadows, 

By  languid  lakes  of  sweetly  sinuous  dreams, 
Steeped  in  enchanted  mists,  beguiled  by  shadows, 

Casting  life's  flowers  upon  loitering  streams, 
My    memory    owns,    and    yours — mine    with    deej 

shame — 
Yours  with  a  sigh  that  life  is  not  the  same. 

What  parted  us  to  leave  you  in  the  valley, 

And  send  me  struggling  to  the  mountain  top; 
Too  weak  for  duty,  even  love  failed  to  rally 

The  manhood  that  should  float  your  pinions  up. 
On  my  spent  feet  are  many  cruel  bruises, 

My  limbs  are  wasted  with  their  heavy  toil, 
But  I  have  learned  adversity's  sweet  uses, 

And  brought  my  soul  up  pure  through  every  soil; 
Have  I  no  right  to  scorn  the  man's  dead  power 
That  leaves  you  far  beneath  me  at  this  hour? 


104 


Scorn  you  I  do,  while  pitying  even  more 

The  ignoble  weakness  of  a  strength  debased 
Do  I  yet  mourn  the  faith  that  died  of  yore, 

The  trust  by  timorous  treachery  effaced? 
Through  all,  and  over  all  my  soul  mounts  free 

To  heights  of  peace  you  cannot  hope  to  gain, 
Sings  to  the  stars  its  mountain  minstrelsy, 

And  smiles  down  proudly  on  your  murky  plain; 
'Tis  vain  to  invite  you — yet  come  up,  come  up, 
Conquer  your  way  toward  the  mountain  top. 


VERSES  FOR  M 

The  river  on  the  east 
Ripples  its  azure  flood  within  my  sight, 

And,  darting  from  the  west. 
Are  sunset  arrows  feathered  with  red  light; 

The  northern  wind  has  hung 
His  wintry  harp  upon  some  giant  pine, 

And  the  pale  stars  among 
I  see  the  stars  I  love  to  name  as  mine, 

But  toward  the  south  I  turn  my  eager  eyes- 
Beyond  its  flushed  horizon  my  heart  lies. 

105 


The  snow-clad  isles  of  ice 
Launched  by  wild  Boreas  from  a  northern  shore 

Journey  the  way  my  eyes 
Turn  with  an  envious  longing"  evermore, 

Smiling  back  to  the  sky 
Its  own  pink  blush,  and,  floating  out  of  sight, 

Bear  south  the  softest  dye 

Of  northern  heavens  to  fade  in  southern  night — 
My  eyes  but  look  the  way  my  joys  are  gone, 
And  the  ice  islands  travel  not  alone. 

The  untrod  fields  of  snow 
Glow  with  the  rosy  dye  of  parting  day, 

And  fancy  asks  if  so 
The  snow  is  stained  with  sunset  far  away, 

And  if  some  face,  like  mine, 
Its  forehead  pressed  against  the  window  pane, 

Peers  northward  with  the  shine 
Of  the  pole  star  reflected  in  eyes'  rain; 

"Ah  yes,"  my  heart  says,  "it  is  surely  so," 
And  like  a  bound  bird  flutters  hard  to  go. 

Port  Huron,  Mich.,  1852. 


106 


AH  ME! 

I  say  to  my  heart,  "Be  still! 

Beat  not  against  my  breast 

With  all  this  fierce  unrest; 
I  am  ill,  I  am  ill, — 

Fainting,  sinking  in  the  fire 

Of  a  passionate  desire 
That  consumes  my  thought  and  will.' 

I  say  to  my  soul,  "In  vain 
You  beat  your  restless  wings 
'Gainst  the  cruel  bars  of  things 

That  imprison  and  restrain; 

Turn  your  eyes  away,  be  strong, 
Captive  shall  you  be  not  long, 

But  your  prisen  rent  in  twain." 

That  life  should  be,  ah  me! 

Longing,  and  never  joy; 

Paltry  pleasures  that  cloy, 
And  writhings  to  be  free; 

Paintings,  cryings  to  the  sky, 

"My  God,  O  let  me  die," 
When  it  should  sweetest  be. 
Ah  me! 


107 


OATHS  ARE  BUT  WORDS. 

"Oaths  are  but  words,"  the  Spaniards  said, 
"And  words  but  air";  and  so  they  broke 
Both  word  and  oath,  as  I  have  read. 

In  truth  I  think  that  words  are  air, 
And  scarcely  worthy  to  be  spoke 
'Twixt  friend  and  friend  whose  hearts  we  share. 

Far  sweeter  language  speaks  the  eye, 

And  truer  than  the  pliant  tongue; 
And  by  this  we  are  friends  for  aye. 

1  see  your  gentle  heart,  and  you 

Are  sure  that  mine  is  kind  and  strong 
And  each  believes  the  other  true. 

What  need  is  there  for  me  to  say, 

"Remember  me  in  times  to  come?" 
You  will  remember,  come  what  may. 

And  I— I  have  no  pledge  to  give, 

My  lips  when  I  would  speak  are  dumb, 
But  vou  will  trust,  nor  I  deceive. 


108 


PARTED   LOVE. 

When  we  parted  in  our  youth, 

Parted  not  to  meet  again, 
Did  you  doubt  my  love  or  truth, 

Doubt  my  passion  or  my  pain  ? 

Have  you  never  on  your  breast 

Felt  my  kisses  as  of  yore, 
And  awaked  from  blissful  rest 

To  be  sadder  evermore  ? 

Through  the  long  and  weary  years 
Have  you  never  felt  my  hand 

Brush  away  the  bitter  tears 

Duty,  will,  could  not  command? 

Love,  I  doubt  you  not,  and  you 
Surely  feel  my  presence  near, 

Through  the  years  have  I  been  true, 
Through  the  years  have  you  been  dear. 


109 


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, 


AUG  23   1937 


APR  19  1948 


1      JUN  I94rt 


LD  21-5m- 


VD      i    ***->! 

Tb      i HHO I 


U.C.BERKELEY  LIBRARIES 


736981 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


